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THE 


HOMESTEAD ON THE HILLSIDE, 




BY 

NIKS. MARY J. HOLMES, 

AUTHOR OF “TKMPEST /LSD 8UKSUINE," AlTD “TIEB E>*GLI8n OEPHAIiS.’* 


n I 



i- 

NEW YORK AND AUBURN: 

MILLER, ORTONT & MHLLIGANT. 

New York; 25 Park Eow— Auburn: 107 Genesee-st. 

1856 . 



Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year one thousand eight hundred 

and fifty-five, 

BY MILLER, ORTON & MULLIGAN, 

In the Clerk’s Office of the District Court of the Northern District of New York. 


auburn: 


HILLER, ORTON <b MULLIGAN, 
STBBEOTTPEBS AND PBINTKB3. 


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CONTENTS 


I. 

THE HOMESTEAD ON THE HILLSIDE. 

CHAPTER. 

I. Mrs. Hamilton, .... 

II. Lenora and her Mother, 

III. One Step Toward the Homestead, 

IV. After the Burial, .... 

V. Kate Kirby, . . . 

VI. Raising the Wind, 

VII. The Step-mother, .... 

VIII. Domestic Life at the Homestead, 

IX. Lenora and Carrie, .... 

X. Darkness, .... 

XI. Margaret and her Father, 

XII. “ Carrying out Dear Mr. Hamilton’s Plans,” 

XIII. Retribution, ..... 

XIV. Finale 


II. 

RICE CORNER. 


I. Introductory, 

II. The Belle of Rice Corner, 

III. Monsieur Penoyer, 

IV. Cousin Emma, . 


PAGE. 

11 

15 

19 

25 

32 

40 

45 

51 

11 

15 

81 

94 

100 

113 


115 

122 

126 

132 


vm 


OOXTENTTS. 


CHAPTER. PAGE. 

V. Richard Evelyn and Harley Ashmoro, . . 186 

VI. Mike and Sally, 147 

VII. The Bride, . . . . . 150 


III. 


THE GILBERTS ; OR, RICE CORNER NUMBER TWO. 


I. The Gilberts, . 

II. Nellie, 

III. The Haunted House, 

IV. Jealousy, . 

V. New Relations, 

VI. Poor, poor Nellie, 


157 

161 

166 

171 

174 

179 


IV. 

THE THANKSGIVING PARTY AND ITS CONSEQUENCES. 


I. Night before Thanksgiving, 

II. Thanksgiving Day, 

III. Ada Harcourt, , 

IV. Lucy, . . . . 

V. Uncle Israel, 

VI. Explanation, 

VII. A Maneuver, . 

VIII. Cousin Berintha and Lucy’s Party, 
IX. A Wedding at St. Luke’s, 

X. A Surprise, * . ’ , ' , 

XL Lizzie, . . 


181 

184 

190 

199 

202 

205 

208 

213 

223 

227 

280 


CONTENTS, 


IX 


V. 

THE OLD BED HOUSE AMONG THE MOUNTAINS. 


CHAPTER. 

I. Uncle Amos and Aunt Polly, 

II. Alice, 

III. Little Items, 

IV. Frank, 

V. Woman’s Nature, • 

VI. Squire Herndon and Ira, . 

VII. Alice’s Mother, 

VIII. The Wanderer’s Return, . 

IX. Father and Child, 

X. The Old Man’s Death-bed, 

XL The Recognition, 

XII. The Funeral, 

XIII. “All’s well that ends well,” 

VI. 


GLEN’S CREEK. 

I. Reminiscences, 

II. Deacon Wilder, . 

III. Cato and Dillah, , • 

IV. The Gortons, 

V. The New Home, 

VI. Orianna, , . . • 

VII. Marian, . . • 

VIII. Robert and Orianna, . • 

IX. The Bridal, . . . 

X. Orianna’s Faith, . , . 

XI. Preparations for a Journey, • 

XII. Ella 

XIII. The Death-bed, 

XIV. The Denouement, . * 

A 


PAGE. 

237 

238 
243 
24.5 
249 
261 
254 
258 
2G2 
264 
260 
268 
270 


273 

275 

279 

281 

282 

284 

286 

290 

296 

301 

805 

809 

813 

817 


CONTEXTS, 


X 

VII. 

THE GABLE-ROOFED HOUSE AT SNOWDON. 

CHAPTEB. PAGE. 

1. Josephine, ...... 325 

II. A Peep at the Gable-Roofed House at Snowdon, . 833 

III. Locust Grove, . . . . . . 336 

IV. Delphine and M’Gregor, • . ' . , , 842 

V. Jimmy, , . . , , , 345 

VI. Snowdon, . . . * , , . 360 

VII. The New House, . * . • . . 854 

VIII. Mrs. M’Gregor, ..... 361 

IX. Changes, . . . , . .371 


CHAPTER I. 


MRS. HAMILTOIS'. 

For many years the broad, rich acres, and old fash- 
ioned, massive building known as “The Homestead on 
the Hillside,” had passed successively from father to son, 
until at last it belonged by right of inheritance to Ernest 
Hamilton. H either time nor expense had been spared in 
beautifying and embellishing both house and grounds, and 
at the time of which we are speaking, there was not, for 
miles around, so lovely a spot as was the shady old 
homestead. 

It stood at some distance from the road, and on the 
bright green lawn in front, v/ere many majestic forest 
trees, on which had fallen the lights and shadows of more 
than a century ; and under whose wide-spreading branches 
oft, in the olden time, the Indian warrior had paused from 
the chase until the noonday heat was passed. Leading 
from the street to the house, was a wide, graveled walk 
bordered with box, and peepmg out from the wilderness 
of vines and climbing roses, were the white walls of the 
huge building, which was surrounded on ah. sides by a 
double piazza. 

Many and hallowed were the associations connected 
with that old homestead. On the curiously carved seats 
beneath the tall shade trees, were cut the names of some, 


12 


THE HOMESTEAD ON THE HILLSIDE. 


who there had lived, and loved, and passed away. 
Through the little gate at the foot of the garden, and just 
across the brooklet, whose clear waters leaped and laughed 
in the glad sunshine, and then went dancing away in the 
woodland below, was a quiet spot, where gracefully the 
willow tree was bending, where the wild sweet brier was 
blooming, and where, too, lay sleeping those who once 
gathered round the hearth-stone and basked in the sun- 
hght which ever seemed resting upon the Homestead on 
the Hillside. 

But a darker day was coming ; a night was approach- 
ing when a deep gloom would overshadow the homestead 
and the loved ones within its borders. The servants, ever 
superstitious, now whispered mysteriously that the spirits 
of the departed returned nightly to their old accustomed 
places, and that dusky hands from the graves of the slum- 
bering dead were uplifted, as if to warn the master of the 
domain of the desolation wliich was to come. For more 
than a year the wife of Ernest Hamilton had been dying 
— slowly, surely dying — and though when the skies 
were brightest and the sunshine warmest she ever seemed 
better, each morning’s light still revealed some fresh rav- 
age the disease had made, until at last there was no hope, 
and the anxious group which watched her knew full well 
that ere long among them would be a vacant chair, and 
in the family burying groimd an added grave. 

One evening Mrs. Hamilton seemed more than usually 
restless, and requested her daughters to leave her, thift 
she might compose herself to sleep. Scarcely was she 
alone, when with cat-like tread there glided through the 
doorway the dark figure of a woman, who advanced to- 
ward the bedside, noiselessly as a serpent would steal to 
his ambush. She was apparently forty-five years of age, 
and dressed in deep mourning, which seemed to increase 


MRS. HAMILTOIT. 


13 


the marble whiteness of her face. Her eyes, large, black, 
and glittering, fastened themselves upon the invalid with 
a gaze so intense that Mrs. Hamilton’s hand involuntarily 
sought the bell-rope, to summon some one else to her 
room. 

But ere the bell was rung, a strangely sweet, musical 
voice fell on her ear, and arrested her movements. “ Par- 
don me for intruding,” said the stranger, “ and suffer me 
to introduce myself. I am Mrs. Carter, who not long 
since removed to the village. I have heard of your ill- 
ness, and wishing to render you any assistance in my 
power, I have ventured, unannounced, into your presence, 
hoping that I at least am not unwelcome. 

Mrs. Hamilton had heard of a widow lady, who with 
an only daughter had recently removed to the village, 
which lay at the foot of the long hill on which stood the 
old homestead. She had heard, too, that Mrs. Carter, 
though rather singular in some respects, was unusually 
benevolent, spending much time in visiting the sick and 
needy, and, as far as possible, ministering to their comfort. 

Extending her hand, she said, “ I know you by reputa- 
tion, Mrs. Carter, and feel greatly pleased that you have 
thought to visit me. Pray be seated.” 

This last invitation was superfluous, for with the air of 
a person entirely at home, the lady had seated herself, 
and as the room was rather warm, she threw back her 
bonnet, disclosing to view a mass of rich brown hair, 
which made her look several years younger than she really 
was. Nothing could be more apparently kind and sin- 
cere than were her words of sympathy, nothing more 
soothing than the sound of , her voice ; and when she for 
a moment raised Mrs. Hamilton, while she adjusted her 
pillows, the sick woman declared that never before had 
any one done it so gently or so well. 


14 


THE HOMESTEAD ON THE HILLSIDE. 


Mrs. Carter was just resuming her seat, when, in the 
adjoining hall, there was the sound of a heavy tread, and 
had Mrs. Hamilton been at all suspicious of her visitor, 
she would have wondered at the flush which deepened on 
her cheek when the door opened, and Mr. Hamilton stood 
in their midst. On seeing a stranger, he turned to leave, 
but his wife immediately introduced him, and seating 
himself upon the sofa, he remarked, “ I have seen you 
frequently in church, Mrs. Carter, but I believe I have 
never spoken with you before.” 

A peculiar expression flitted over her features at these 
words, an expression which Mr. Hamilton noticed, and 
which awoke remembrances of something unpleasant, 
though he could not tell v/hat. 

“ Where have I seen her before ? ” thought he, as she 
bade them good night, promising to come again and stay 
a longer time. “ Where have I seen her before ? ” and 
then involuntarily his thoughts went back to the time, 
years and years ago, when a wild young man in college, 
he had thoughtlessly trifled with the handsome daughter 
of his landlady, ^ven now he seemed to hear her last 
v^ords, as he bade her farewell: “You may go, Ernest 
Hamilton, and forget me if you can, but Luella does not 
so easily forget ; and remember, when least you expect 
it, we shall meet again.” 

Could this strange being, with honeyed words and win- 
ning ways, be that fiery, vindictive girl ? Impossible ! 
and satisfied with this conclusion, Mr. Hamilton resumed 
his evening paper. 


LENORA AND HER MOTHER. 


16 


CHAPTER n. 

LENORA AND HER MOTHER. 

From the windows of a small, white cottage, at the ex- 
tremity of Glenwood vijlage, Lenora Carter watched for 
her mother’s return. “She stays long,” thought she, 
“ but it bodes success to her plan ; though when did she 
undertake a thing and fail ! ” 

The fall of the gate-latch was heard, and in a moment 
Mrs. Carter was with her daughter, whose first exclama- 
tion was, “What a little eternity you’ve been gone! 
Did you renew your early vows to the old man ? ” 

“I’ve no vows to renew,” answered Mrs. Carter, “but 
I ’ve paved the way well, and got invited to call again.” 

“ Oh, capital ! ” said Lenora. “ It takes you, mother, to 
do up things, after aU; but, really, was Mrs. Hamilton 
pleased with you ? ” 

“Judging by the pressure of her hand when she bade 
me good-by, I should say she was,” answered Mrs. Car- 
ter ; and Lenora continued : “ Did you see old Money- 
bags ? ” 

“ Lenora, child, you must not speak so disrespectfully 
of Mr. Hamilton,” said Mrs. Carter. 

“I beg your pardon,” answered Lenora, while her 
mother continued : “ I saw him, but do not think he re- 
cognized me ; .and perhaps it is as well that he should 
not, until I have made myself indispensable to him and 
his family.” 

“ Which you will never do with the haughty Mag, I 
am sure,” said Lenora ; “ but tell me, is the interior of 
the house as handsome as the exterior ? ” 

“ Far more so,” was the reply ; and Mrs. Carter pro- 


16 


THE HOMESTEAD ON THE HILLSIDE. 


ceeded to enumerate the many costly articles of furniture 
she had seen. 

She was interrupted by Lenora, who asked, “How 
long, think you, will the incumbrance live ? ” 

“Lenora,” said Mrs. Carter, “you shall not talk so. 
No one wishes Mrs. Hamilton to die ; but if such an af- 
flictive dispensation does occur, I trust we shall all be 
resigned.” 

“ Oh, I keep forgetting that you are acting the j)art of 
a resigned widow ; but I, thank fortune, have no part to 
act, and can say what I please.” 

“ And spoil all our plans, too, by your foolish babbling,” 
interposed Mrs. Carter. 

“ Let me alone for that,” answered Lenora. “ I have n’t 
been trained by such a mother for nothing. But, seri- 
ously, how is Mrs. Hamilton’s health ? ” 

“ She is very low, and cannot possibly live long,” was 
the reply. 

Here there was a pause in the conversation, during 
which we will take the opportmiity of introducmg more 
fully to our readers the estimable Mrs. Carter and her 
daughter. Mr. Hamilton was right when he associated 
the resigned widow vith his old flame, Luella Blackburn, 
whom he had never seriously thought of marrying, 
though by way of pastime he had frequently teased, tor- 
mented, and flattered her. Luella was ambitious, artful, 
and designing. Wealth and position was the goal at 
which she aimed. Both of these she knew Ernest Ham- 
ilton possessed, and she had felt greatly pleased at his ev- 
ident preference. When, therefore, at the end of his col- 
lege course he left her with a few commonplace remarks, 
such as he would have spoken to any familiar acquaint- 
ance, her rage knew no bounds ; and in the anger of the 


LENORA. AND HER MOTHER. 17 

mWent she resolved, sooner or later, to be revenged 
upon him. ^ 

Years, however, passed on, and a man whom she 
thought wealthy offered her his hand. She accepted it, 
and found, too late, that she was wedded to poverty. 
This aroused the e^dl of her nature to such an extent, that 
her husband’s life became one of great unhappiness, and 
four years after Lenora’s birth, he left her. Several 
years later she succeeded in procuring a divorce, although 
she still retained his name. Recently she had heard of 
his death, and about the same time, too, she heard that 
the wife of Ernest Hamilton was dying. • Suddenly a wild 
scheme entered her mind. She would remove to the vil- 
lage of Glenwood, would ingratiate herself into the favor 
of Mrs. Hamilton, win her confidence and love, and then, 
when she was dead, the rest she fancied would be an easy 
matter, for she knew that Mr. Plamilton was weak^ and 
easily flattered. 

For several weeks they had been in Glenwood, impa- 
tiently waiting an opportunity for making the acquaint- 
ance of the Hamiltons. But as neither Margaret nor 
Carrie called, Lenora became discouraged, and one day 
exclaimed, “ I should like to know what you are going 
to do. There is no probability of that proud Mag’s call- 
ing on me. How I hate her, with her big black eyes and 
hateful ways ! ” 

“Patience, patience,” said Mrs. Carter, “I’ll manage 
it ; as Mrs. Hamilton is sick, it will be perfectly proper 
for me to go and see her ; ” and then was planned the 
visit which we have described. 

“ Oh, won’t it be grand ! ” said Lenora, that night, as 
she sat sipping her tea, “Won’t it be grand, if you do 
succeed, and won’t I lord it over Miss Margaret ! As 
for that little white-fliced Carrie, she’s too insipid for 

2 


18 


THE HOMESTEAD ON THE HILLSIDE. 


one to trouble herself about, and I dare say thinks you 
a very nice woman, for how can her Sabbath-school 
teacher be otherwise;” and a satirical laugh echoed 
through the room. Suddenly springing up, Lenora 
glanced at herself in the mirror, and turning to her 
mother, said, “Did you hear when Walter is expected, 
and am I so very ugly looldng ? ” 

While Mrs. Carter is preparing an answer to the first 
question, we, for the sake of our readers, will answer the 
last one. Lenora was a little, dark-looking girl, about 
eighteen years of age. Her eyes were black, her face 
was black, and her haii* was black, standing out from her 
head in short, thick curls, which gave to her features a 
strange, witch-like expression. From her mother she 
had inherited the same sweet, cooing voice, the same 
gliding, noiseless footsteps, which had led some of their 
acquaintance to accuse them of what, m the days of New . 
England witchcraft, would have secm’ed their passport to 
another world. 

Lenora had spoken truthfully when she said that she had 
not been trained by such a mother for nothing, for what- 
ever of evil appeared in her conduct was more the result 
of her mother’s training than of a naturally bad disposi- 
tion. At times, her mother petted and caressed her, and 
again, in a fit of ill humor, drove her from the room, 
taunting her with the strong resemblance which she bore 
to the man whom she had once called father ! On such 
occasions, Lenora was never at a loss for words, and the 
scenes which sometimes occurred were too disgraceful 
for repetition. On one subject, however, they were 
united, and that was in their elforts to become inmates 
of the Homestead on the Hillside. In the accomplish- 
ment of this, Lenora had a threefold object : first, it 
would secure her a luxuriant home ; second, she would 


LENORA AND HER MOTHER. 


19 


be thrown in the way of Walter Hamilton, who was 
about finishing his college course ; and last, though not 
least, it would be such a triumph over Margaret, who, she 
fancied, treated her with cold indifierence. 

Long after the hour of midnight was rung from the 
village clock, the widow and her daughter sat by their 
fireside, formmg plans for the future, and when at last 
they retired to sleep, it was to dream of funeral proces- 
sions, bridal favors, step-children, half-sisters, and double 
connections all around. 


CHAPTER HI. 

ONE STEP TOWARD THE HOMESTEAD. 

Weeks passed on, and so necessary to the comfort of 
the invalid did the presence of Mrs. Carter become, that 
at last, by particular request, she took up her abode at 
the homestead, becoming Mrs. Hamilton’s constant nurse 
and attendant. Lenora, for the time being, was sent to 
the house of a friend, who lived not far distant. When 
Margaret Hamilton learned of the arrangement, she op- 
posed it with all her force. 

“Send her away, mother,” said she one evening; 
“ please send her away, for I cannot endure her presence, 
with her oily words and silent footsteps. She reminds 
me of the serpent, who decoyed Eve into eating that ap- 
ple, and I always feel an attack of the nightmare, when- 
ever I know that her big, black eyes are fastened upon 
me.” 

“ How differently people see,” laughed Carrie, who was 


20 


THE HOSIESTEAD ON THE HILLSIDE. 


sitting by. “ Why, Mag, I always fancy her to be in a 
nightmare when your big eyes light upon her.” 

“ It’s because she knows she’s guilty,” answered Mag, 
her words and manner warming up with the subject. 
“Say, mother, won’t you send her off? It seems as 
though a dark shadow falls upon us all the moment she 
enters the house.” 

“ She is too invaluable a nurse to be discharged for a 
slight whim,” answered Mrs. Hamilton. “ Besides, she 
bears the best of reputations, and I don’t see what possi- 
ble harm can come of her being here.” 

Margaret sighed, for though she knew full weU the “ pos- 
sible harm ” which might come of it, she could not tell it 
to her pale, dying mother ; and ere she had time for any 
answer, the black bombasin' dress, white linen collar, and 
white, smooth face of Widow Carter moved silently into 
the room. There was a gleam of intense hatred in the 
dark eyes which for a moment flashed on Margaret’s face, 
and then a soft hand gently stroked the glossy hair of 
the indignant girl, and in the most musical tones imagina- 
ble, a low voice murmured, “ Maggie, dear, you look 
flushed and wearied. Are you quite well ? ” 

“ Perfectly so,” answered Margaret ; and then rising, 
she left the room, but not until she had heard her mother 
say, “ Dear Mrs. Carter, I am so glad you’ve come ! ” 

“ Is everybody bewitched,” thought Mag, as she re- 
paired to her chamber, “ father, mother, Carrie, and all ? 
How I wish Walter was here. He always sees things as 
I do.” 

Margaret Hamilton was a high spirited, intelligent girl, 
about nmeteen years of age. She was not beautiful, but 
had you asked for the finest looking girl in all Glenwood, 
Mag would surely have been pointed out. She was 
rather above the medium height, and in her whole bear- 


ONE STEP TOWARD THE HOMESTEAD. 


21 


ing there was a quiet dignity, which many mistook for 
hauteur. N'aturally frank, affectionate, and kind-hearted, 
she was, perhaps, a little strong in her prejudices, which, 
when once satisfactorily formed, could not easily he 
shaken. 

For Mrs. Carter she had conceived a strong dislike, for 
she believed her to be an artful, hypocritical woman ; 
and now, as she sat by the window in her room, her heart 
swelled with indignation toward one who had thus 
usurped her place by her mother’s bedside, whom Car- 
rie was learning to confide in, and of whom even the 
father said, “ she is a most excellent woman.” 

“I will write to Walter,” said she, “and tell him to 
come unmediately.” 

Suiting the action to the word, she drew up her wri- 
ting desk, and soon a finished letter was lying before her. 
Ere she 'had time to fold and du’ect it, a loud cry from 
her young brother Willie, summoned her for a few mo- 
ments from the room, and on her return, she met in the 
doorway the black bombasin and linen collar. 

“ Madam,” said she, “ did you wish for anything ? 

“Yes, dear,” was the soft answer, which, however, in 
this case failed to turn away wrath. “ Yes, dear, your 
mother said you knew where there were some fine bits 
of linen.” 

“ And could not Carrie come for them ? ” asked Mag. 

“ Yes, dear, but she looks so delicate that I do not like 
to send her up these long stairs oftener than is necessary. 
Haven’t you noticed how pale she is getting of late? I 
shouldn’t be at all surprised ; ” but before the sen- 

tence was finished, the linen was found, and the door 
closed uq^oii Mrs. Carter. 

A new idea had been awakened in Margaret’s mind, 
and for the first time she thought how much her sister re- 


22 


THE HOMESTEAD ON THE HILLSIDE. 


ally had changed. Carrie, who was four years younger 
than Margaret, had ever been delicate, and her parents 
had always feared that not long could they keep her ; but 
though each winter her cough had returned with in- 
creased severity, though the veins on her white brow 
grew more distinct, and her large, blue eyes glowed with 
unwonted luster, still Margaret had never before dreamed 
of danger, never thought that soon her sister’s voice 
would be missed, and that Carrie would be gone. But 
she thought of it now, and laying her head upon the ta- 
ble, wept for a time in silence. 

At length, drying her tears, she folded her letter and 
took it to the post-office. As she w^as returning home, 
she was met by a servant, who exclaimed, “ Run, Miss 
Margaret, run ; your mother is dying, and Mrs. Carter 
sent me for you ! ” 

Swift as the mountain chamois, Margaret sped up the 
long, steep hill, and in a few moments stood within her 
mother’s sick-room. Supported in the arms of Mrs. Car- 
ter lay the dymg woman, while her eyes, already over- 
shadowed with the mists of coming death, wandered anx- 
iously around the room, as if in quest of some one. The 
moment Margaret appeared, a satisfied smile broke over 
her wasted features, and beckoning her daughter to her 
bedside, she whispered, “ Dear Maggie, you did not think 
I’d die so soon, when you went away.” 

A burst of tears was Maggie’s only answer, as she pas- 
sionately kissed the cold, white lips, which had never 
breathed aught to her save words of love and gentleness. 
Far different, however, would have been her reply, had 
she known the reason of her mother’s question. Xot 
long after she had left the house for the office, Mrs. 
Hamilton had been taken worse, and the physician, wdio 
chanced to be present, pronounced her dying. Instantly 


ONE STEP TOWARD THE HOMESTEAD. 


23 


the alarmed husband summoned together his household, 
but Mag was missing. No one had seen her; no one 
knew where she was, until Mrs. Carter, who had been 
some little time absent from the room, reentered it, say- 
ing, “ Margaret had started for the post-office with a let- 
ter, when I sent a servant to tell her of her mother’s dan- 
ger, but for some reason she kept on, though I dare say 
she will soon be back.” 

As we well know, the substance of this speech was 
true, though the impression which Mrs. Carter’s words 
conveyed was entirely false. For the advancement of her 
own cause, she felt that it was necessary to weaken the 
high estimation in which Mr. Hamilton held his daugh- 
ter, and she fancied that the mother’s death-bed was as 
fitting a place where to commence operations as she could 
select. 

As Margaret hung over her mother’s piUow, the false 
woman, as if to confirm the assertion she had made, 
leaned forward and said, “ Robin told you, I suppose ? I 
sent him to do so.” 

Margaret nodded assent, while a deeper gloom fell 
upon the brow of Mr. Hamilton, who stood with folded 
arms, watching the advance of the great destroyer. It 
came at last, and though no perceptible change heralded 
its approach, there was one fearful spasm, one long drawn 
sigh, a striving of the eye for one more glimpse of the 
loved ones gathered near, and then Mrs. Hamilton was 
dead. On the bosom of Mrs. Carter her life was breathed 
away, and when all was over, that lady laid gently down 
her burden, carefully adjusted the tumbled covering, and 
then stepping to the window, looked out, while the 
stricken group deplored their loss. 

Long and bitterly over their dead they wept, but., not 
on one of that weeping band fell the bolt so crushingly 


24 


THE HOMESTEAD ON THE HILLSIDE. 


as upon Willie, the youngest of the flock, the child four 
summers old, who had ever lived in the light of his moth- 
er’s love. They had told him she would die, but he mi- 
derstood them not, for never before had he looked on 
death; and now, when to liis childish words of love 
his mother made no answer, most piteously rang out 
the infantile cry, “ Mother, oh, my mother, who’ll be my 
mother now ? ” 

Caressingly, a small, white hand was laid on Willie’s 
yellow curls, but ere the words of love were spoken, 
Margaret took the little fellow in her arms, and whis- 
pered, through her tears, “ I’ll be your mother, darling.” 

Willie brushed the tear-drops from his sister’s cheek, 
and laying his fair, round face upon her neck, said, “ And 
who’ll be Maggie’s mother ? Mrs. Carter ? ” 

“Never ! never ! ” answered Mag, while to the glance 
of hatred and defiance cast upon her, she returned one 
equally scornful and determined. 

Soon from tlie village there came words of sympathy 
and offers of assistance ; but Mrs. Carter could do every- 
thing, and in her blandest tones she declined the services 
of the neighbors, refusing even to admit them into the 
presence of Margaret and Carrie, who, she said, were so 
much exhausted as to be unable to bear the fresh burst 
of grief which the sight of an old friend would surely 
produce. So the neighbors went home, and, as the world 
will ever do, descanted upon the probable result of Mrs. 
Carter’s labors at the homestead. Thus, ere Ernest Ham- 
ilton had been three days a widower, many in fancy had 
wedded him to Mrs Carter, saying that^ nowhere could 
he find so good a mother for his children. 

And truly she did seem to be indispensable in that 
house of mourning. ’Twas she who saw that everything 
was done, quietly and in order ; ’t was she who so neatly 


OXE STEP TOWARD THE HOMESTEAD. 


25 


arranged the muslin shroud ; ’t was her arms that sup- 
ported the half fainting Carrie when first her eye rested 
on her mother, coffined for the grave ; ’t was she who 
whispered words of comfort to the desolate husband ; and 
she, too, it was, who, on the night when Walter was ex- 
pected home, kindly sat up until past midnight to receive 
him ! 

She had read Mag’s letter, and by being first to welcome 
the young man home, she hoped to remove from his mind 
any preju^ce which he might feel for her, and by her 
bland smiles and gentle words to lure him into the belief 
that she was perfect, and Margaret uncharitable. Par- 
tially she succeeded, too, for when next morning Mag 
expressed a desire that Mrs. Carter would go home, he 
replied, “ I think you judge her AvrongfuUy ; she seems to 
be a most amiable, kind-hearted woman.” 

•- Et tu^ Mag could have said, but ’twas nei- 

ther the time nor the place, and finking her arm within her 
brother’s, she led him into the adjoining room, where 
stood their mother’s coffin. 


CHAPTER IV. 

AFTER THE BURIAL. 

‘ Across the bright waters of the silvery lake which lay 
not far from Glenwood village, over the grassy hillside, 
and down the long, green valley, had floated tl^e notes of 
the tolling bell. In the Hamilton mansion, sympathizing 
friends had gathered, and through the crowded parlors a 
solemn hush had reigned, broken only by the voice of the 
white-h^ed man of God, who in trembling tones prayed 


26 


THE HOMESTEAD ON THE HILLSIDE. 


for the bereaved ones. Over the costly coffin tear-wet 
faces had bent, and on the marble features of her who 
slept within it, had been pressed the passionate kisses of 
a long, a last farewell. 

Through the shady garden and across the running 
brook, whose waters this day murmured more sadly than 
’t was their wont to do, the fimeral train had passed ; and 
in the dark, moist earth, by the side of many other still, 
pale sleepers, who offered no remonstrance when among 
them another came, they had buried the departed. 
From the windows of the homestead lights were gleam- 
ing, and in the common sitting-room sat Ernest Hamilton, 
and by his side his four motherless children. In the 
stuffed arm chair, sacred for the sake of one who had 
called it hers, reclined the black bombasin and linen collar 
of Widow Carter ! 

She had, as she said, fully intended to return home im- 
mediately after the burial, but there were so many little 
things to be seen to, so much to be done, which Margaret, 
of course, did not feel like doing, that she decided to stay 
until after supper, together with Lenora, who had come 
to the funeral. When supper was over, and there was no 
longer an excuse for Imgering, she found, very greatly to 
her surprise and chagrin, no doubt, that the clouds which 
all day had looked dark and angry, were now pouring 
rain. 

“ What shall I do ? ” she exclaimed in great apparent 
distress ; then stepping to the door of the sitting-room, 
she said, “ Maggie, dear, can you lend me an umbrella ? It 
is raining very hard, and I do not wish to go home with- 
out one ; I will send it back to-morrow.” 

“Certainly,” answered Margaret. “Umbrella and 
overshoes, too ;” and rising, she left the room to procure 
them. 


AFTER THE BURIAL. 


27 


“ But yon surely are not going out in this storm, “ said 
Mr. Hamilton ; while Carrie, who really liked Mrs. Car- 
ter, and felt that it would he more lonely Tvhen she was 
gone, exclaimed eagerly, “ Oh, don’t leave us to-night, 
Mrs. Carter. Don’t.” 

“ Yes, I think I must,” was the answer, while Mr. Ham- 
ilton continued : “ You had better stay ; but if you insist 
upon going, I will order the carriage, as you must not 
walk.” 

“ Rather than put you to all that trouble, I will re- 
main,” said Mrs. Carter ; and when Mag returned with 
two umbrellas and two pair of overshoes, she found the 
widow comfortably seated in her mother’s arm chair, 
while on the stool at her side, sat Lenora looking not unlike 
a little imp, with her wild, black face, and short, thick curls. 

Walter Hamilton had not had much opportunity for 
scanning the face of Mrs. Carter, but now, as she sat 
there with the firelight flickering over her features, he 
fancied that he could trace marks of the treacherous de- 
ceit of which Mag had warned him ; and when the full 
black eyes rested upon Margafet, he failed not to note 
the glance of scorn which flashed from them, and which 
changed to a look of affectionate regard the moment she 
saw she was observed. “There is something wrong 
about her,” thought he, “ and the next time I am alone 
with Mag I’ll ask what it is she fears from this woman.” 

That night, in the solitude of their room, mother and 
child communed together as follows: “I do believe, 
mother, you are twin sister to the old one himself. Why, 
who would have thought, when first you made that 
friendly visit, that in five weeks’ time both of us would 
be snugly ensconced in the best chamber of the home- 
stead ? ” 

“If you think we are in the best chamber, you are 


28 


THE HOiMESTEAD ON THE HILLSIDE. 


greatly mistaken,” replied Mrs. Carter. “Margaret 
Hamilton has power enough yet to keep us out of that. 
Didn’t she look crest-fallen, though, when she found I was 
going to stay, notwithstanding her very disinterested 
offer of umbrellas and overshoes ? but I’ll pay it all back 
when I become 

“ Mistress of the house,” added Lenora. “ Why not 
speak out plainly? Or are you afraid the walls have ears, 
and that the devoted Mrs. Carter’s speeches would not 
sound well, repeated ? Oh, how sanctimonious you did 
look, to-day, when you were talking pious to Carrie ! I 
actually had to force a sneeze, to keep from laughing 
outright, though she, little simpleton, swallowed it all, / 
and I dare say wonders where you keep your wings ! 
But really, mother, I hope you don’t intend to pet her so 
always, for ’t would be more than it’s worth to see it.” 

“ I guess I know how to manage,” returned Mrs. Car- 
ter. “ There’s nothing wM win a parent’s affection so 
soon as to pet the children.” 

“ And so I suppose you expect Mr. Hamilton to pet 
tJiis beautiful child!” said Lenora, ‘'laughing loudly at 
the idea, and waltzing back and forth before the mirror. 

“ Lenora ! behave y I will not see you conduct so,” 
said the widow; to which the young lady replied, “ Shut 
your eyes, and then you can’t ! ” 

Meantime, an entirely different conversation was going 
on in another part of the house, where sat Walter Ham- 
^ ilton, with his arm thrown affectionately around Mag, 
who briefly told of what she feared would result from 
Mrs. Carter’s intimacy at their house. 

“ Impossible ! ” said the young man, starting to his 
feet. “Impossible! our father has too much sense to 
marry again, any way, and much more, to marry one so 
greatly inferior to our own dear mother.” 



AFTER THE BURIAL. 


29 


“ I hope it may prove so,” answered Mag ; “ but, with 
all due respect for our father, you know and I know that 
mother’s was the stronger mind, the controlling spirit ; 
and now that she is gone, father will be more easily de- 
ceived.” 

Margaret told the truth ; for her mother had possessed 
a strong intelligent mind, and was greatly the superior of 
her father, who, as we have before remarked, was rather 
weak, and easily flattered.* Always sincere himself in 
what he said, he could not believe that other people were 
aught than what they seemed to be, and thus oftentimes 
his confidence had been betrayed by those in whom he 
trusted. As yet, he had, of course, entertained no thought 
of ever making Mrs. Carter his wife ; but her society was 
agreeable, her words and manner soothing, and Avhen, on 
the day following the burial, she actually took her depar- 
ture, bag, baggage, Lenora, and all, he felt how doubly 
lonely was the old homestead, and wondered why she 
could not stay. There was room enough, and then Mar- 
garet was too young to assume the duties of housekeeper. 
Other men, in similao.’ circumstances, had hired house- 
keepers, and why could not he ? He would speak to Mag 
about it that very night. But when evening came, Wal- 
ter, Carrie, and Willie all were present, and he found 
no opportunity of seeing Margaret alone ; neither did any 
occur until after Walter had returned to college, which 
he did the week following his mother’s death. 

That night the little parlor at the cottage where dwelt 
the Widow Carter, looked unusually snug and cozy. It 
was autumn, and as the evenings were rather cool, a 
cheerful wood fire was blazing on the hearth. Before it 
stood a tasteful little workstand, near which were seated 
Lenora and her mofeer, the one industriously knitting, 
and the other occasionally touching the strings of her 


80 


THE HOMESTEAD ON THE HILLSIDE. 


guitar, .wnich was suspended from her neck by a*»crimson 
ribbon. On the sideboard stood a fruit dish loaded with 
red and golden apples, and near it a basket filled ■with the 
rich purple grapes. 

That day in the street Lenora had met Mr. Hamilton, 
who asked if her mother would be at home that evening, 
saying he intended to call for the purpose of settling the 
bill which he owed her for services rendered to his fam- 
ily in their late affliction. 

“ When I once get him here, I will keep him as long as 
possible,” said Mrs. Carter; “and, Lenora, child, if he stays 
late, say till nine o’clock, you had better go quietly to bed.’’ 

“ Or into the next room, and listen,” thought Lenora. 

Seven o’clock came, and on the graveled walk there 
was heard the sound of footsteps, and in a moment Ern- 
est Hamilton stood in the room, shaking the warm hand 
of the widow, who was delighted to see him, but so sorry 
to find him looking pale and thin ! Rejecting a seat in 
the comfortable rocking-chair, which Lenora pushed 
toward him, he proceeded at once to business, and taking 
from his purse fifteen dollars, passed them toward Mrs. 
Carter, asking if that would remunerate her for the three 
weeks’ services in liis family. 

But Mrs. Carter thrust them aside, saying, “ Sit down, 
Mr. Hamilton, sit doum. I have a great deal to ask you 
about Maggie and dear Carrie’s health.” 

“ And sweet little Willie,” chimed in Lenora. 

Accordingly, Mr. Hamilton sat dovm, and so fast did 
Mrs. Carter talk, that the clock was pointing to half past 
eight ere he got another chance to offer his bills. Then, 
with the look of a much injured woman, Mrs. Carter de- 
clined the money, saying, “ Is it possible, Mr. Hamilton, 
that you suppose my services can be bought ! What I 
did for your wife, I would do for any one who needed 


AFTER THE BURIAL. 


31 


me, though for but few could I entertain the same feel- 
ings I did for her. Short as was our acquaintance, she 
seemed to me like a beloved sister ; and now that she is 
gone, I feel that we have lost an invaluable treasure ” 

Here Mrs. Carter broke down entirely, and was obliged 
to raise her cambric handkerchief to her eyes, while Le- 
nora walked to the window to conceal her emotions, 
whatever they might have been ! When the agitation of 
the company had somewhat subsided, Mr. Hamilton 
again insisted, and again Mrs. Carter refused. At last, 
finding her perfectly inexorable, he proceeded to express 
his warmest thanks and deepest gratitude for what she 
had done, saying he should ever feel indebted to her for 
her great kindness; then, as the clock struck nine, he 
arose to go, in spite of Mrs. Carter’s zealous efibrts to de- 
tain him longer. 

“ Call again,” said she, as she lighted him to the door ; 
“call again, and we will talk over old times, when we 
were young, and lived in N ew Haven ! ” 

Mr. Hamilton started, and looking her full in the face, 
exclaimed, “Luella Blackburn! It is as I at first sus- 
pected ; but who would have thought it ! ” 

“Yes, — I am Luella,” said Mrs. Carter; “though 
greatly changed, I trust, from the Luella you once knew, 
and of whom even I have no very pleasant reminiscences; 
but call again, and I will tell you of many of your old 
classmates.” 

Mr. Hamilton would have gone almost anywhere for 
the sake of hearing from his classmates, many of whom 
he greatly esteemed ; and as in this case the “anywhere” 
was only at Widow Carter’s, the idea was not altogether 
distasteful to him, and when he bade her good night, he 
was under a promise to call again soon. AU hopes, how- 
ever, of procuring her for his housekeeper were given up, 


82 


THE HOMESTEAD ON THE HIELSIDE. 


for if she resented his offer of payment for what she had 
already done, she surely would be doubly indignant at his 
last proposed plan. After becoming convmced of this 
fact, it is a little strange how suddenly he found that he 
did not need a housekeeper — ^that Margaret, who before 
could not do at all, could now do very well — as well as 
anybody. And Margaret did do well, both as house- 
keeper and mother of little Wilhe, who seemed to have 
transferred to her the affection he had borne for his 
mother. 

At intervals during the autumn, Mrs. Carter called, al- 
ways giving a world of good advice, patting Carrie’s pale 
cheek, kissing Willie, and then going away. But as none 
of her calls were ever returned, they gradually became 
less frequent, and as the winter advanced, ceased alto- 
gether ; while Margaret, hearing nothing and seeing no- 
thing, began to forget her fears, and to laugh at them as 
having been groundless. 


CHAPTER y. 

KATE KIEBY. 

Thii^ little brooklet, which danced so merrily by the 
homestead burial-place, and then flowed on in many 
graceful turns and evolutions, finally lost itself in a glossy 
mill-pond, whose waters, when the forest trees were 
stripped of their foflage, gleamed and tvdnkled in the 
smoky autumn light, or lay cold and still beneath the 
breath of winter. During this season of the year, from 
the upper windows of the homestead the null-pond was 


KATE KIRBY. 


33 


discernible, together with a small red building which 
stood upon its banks. 

For many years this house had been occupied by Mr. 
Kirby, who had been a schoolboy with Ernest Hamilton, 
and who, though naturally intelligent, had never aspired 
to any higher employment than that of being miller on 
the farm of his old friend. Three years before our story 
opens, Mr. Kirby had died, and a stranger had been em- 
ployed to take his place. Mrs. Kirby, however, was so 
much attached to her woodland home and its forest scen- 
ery, that she still continued to occupy the low red house 
together with her daughter Kate, who sighed for no bet- 
ter or more elegant home, although rumor whispered that 
there was in store for her a far more costly dwelling, even 
the “ Homestead on the Hillside.” 

Currently was it reported, that during Walter Hamil- 
ton’s vacations, the winding footpath, which followed the 
course of the streamlet down to the mill-pond, was trod- 
den more frequently than usual. The postmaster’s wife, 
too, had hmted strongly of certain ominous letters from 
Kew Haven, which regularly came directed to Kate, 
when Walter was not at home; so, putting together 
these two facts, and adding to them the high estimation 
in which Mrs. Kirby and her daughter were known to be 
held by the Hamiltons, it was generally conceded that 
there could be no shadow of doubt concerning the state 
of affairs between the heir apparent of the old homestead 
and the daughter of the poor miller. 

Kate was a universal favorite, and by nearly all was it 
thought, that in everything save money she was fuUy the 
equal of Walter Hamiltqn. To a face and form of the 
most perfect beauty, she added a degree of intelligence 
and sparkling wit, which, in all the rides, parties, and 
fetes given by the young people of Glenwood, caused her 
B* 3 


34 


THE HOMESTEAD ON THE HILLSIDE. 


society to be cbosen in preference to those whose fathers 
counted their money by thousands. 

A few there were who said that Kate’s long intimacy 
with Margaret Hamilton had made her proud ; but in the 
rude dwellings and crazy tenements which skirted the 
borders of Glenwood village, was many a blind old wo- 
man, and many a hoary-headed man, who, in their daily 
prayers, remembered the beautiful Kate, the “ fair forest- 
flower,” who came so oft among them with her sweet 
young face and gentle words. For Kate, both Margaret 
and Carrie Hamilton already felt a sisterly affection, while 
their father smiled graciously upon her, secretly hoping, 
however, that his son would make a more brilliant match, 
but resolving not to interfere, if at last his choice should 
fall upon her. 

One afternoon, early in April, as Margaret sat in her 
chamber, busy upon a piece of needle-work, the door 
softly opened, and a mass of bright chestnut curls became 
visible ; next appeared the laughing blue eyes ; and fi- 
lially the whole of Kate Kirby bounded into the room, 
saying, “Good afternoon, Maggie; are you very busy, 
and wish I hadn’t come ? ” 

“ I am never too busy to see you,” answered Margaret, 
at the same time pushing toward Kate the little ottoman, 
on which she always sat when in that room. 

Kate took the profiered seat, and throwing aside her 
bonnet, began with, “ Maggie, I want to tell you some- 
thing, though I don’t know as it is quite right to do so ; 
still you may as well hear it from me as any one.” 

“ Do pray tell,” answered Mag, “ I am dymg with cu- 
riosity.” 

So Kate smoothed down her black silk apron, twisted one 
of her curls into a horridly ugly shape, and commenced 


KATE KIEBT. 


35 


with, “ What kind of a woman is that Mrs. Carter, down 
in the village ? ” 

Instantly Margaret’s suspicions were roused, and start- 
ing as if a serpent had stung her, she exclaimed, “ Mrs. 
Carter ! is it of her you will tell me ? She is a most dan- 
gerous woman — a woman whom yom' mother would call 
a ‘snake m the grass.’ ” 

“Precisely so,” answered Kate. “That is just what 
mother says of her, and yet nearly all the village are 
ready to fall down and worship her.” 

“Let them, then,” said Mag; “I have no objections, 
provided they keep their molten calf to themselves. Ko 
one wants her here. But what is it about her ? tell me.” 

Briefly then Kate told how Mr. Hamilton was, and for 
a long time had been, m the habit of spending one eve- 
ning every week with Mrs. Carter ; and that people, not 
without good cause, were already pointing her out as the 
future mistress of the homestead. 

“ISTever, never I” cried Mag, vehemently. “Kever 
shall she come here. She our mother, indeed ! It shall 
not be, if I can prevent it.” 

After a little further conversation, Kate departed, leaving 
Mag to meditate upon the best means by which to avert 
the threatened evil. What Kate had told her was true. 
Mr. Hamilton had so many questions to ask concerning his 
old classmates, and Mrs. Carter had so much to tell, that, 
though they had worked industriously all winter, they 
were not through yet ; neither would they be until Mrs. 
Carter foimd herself again within the old homestead. 

The night following Kate’s visit, Mag determmed to 
speak with her father ; but immediately after tea he went 
out, saying he should not return until nine o’clock. With 
a great efibrt Mag forced down the angry words which she 
felt rising mthin her, and then seating herself at her work, 


36 


THE HOMESTEAD OX THE HILLSIDE. 


she resolved to await his return. Not a word on the sub- 
ject did she say to Carrie, who retired to her room at 
half past eight, as was her usual custom. Alone, now, 
Margaret waited. Nine, ten, eleven had been struck, 
and then into the sitting-room came Mr. Hamilton, greatly 
astonished at finding his daughter there. 

“ Why, Margaret,” said he, “ why are you sitting up 
so late ? ” 

“ If it is late for me, it is late for you,” answered Mar- 
garet, who, now that the trial had come, felt the awk- 
wardness of the task she had undertaken. 

“But I had business,” answered Mr. Hamilton; and 
Margaret, looking him steadily in the face, asked, “Is 
not your business of a nature which equally concerns us 
aU?” 

A momentary flush passed over his features, as he re- 
plied, “ What do you mean ? I do not comprehend.” 

Hurriedly, and in broken sentences, Margaret told him 
what she meant, and then tremblingly she waited for his 
answer. Frowning angrily, he spoke to his daughter the 
first harsh words which had ever passed his lips toward 
either of his children. 

“ Go to your room, and don’t presume to interfere with 
me again. I trust I am competent to tend to my own 
matters ! ” 

Almost convulsively Margaret’s arms closed round her 
father’s neck, as she said, “ Don’t speak so to me, father. 
You never did before — never would now, but for her. 
Oh, father, promise me, by the memory of my angel 
mother, never to see her again. She is a base, designing 
woman.” 

Mr. Hamilton unwound his daughter’s arms from his 
neck, and speaking more gently, said, “ What proof have 


KATE KIRBY. 37 

you of that assertion ? Give me proof, and I promise to 
do your bidding.” 

But Mag had no such proof at hand, and she could only 
reiterate her suspicions, her belief, which, of course, failed 
to convince the biased man, who, rising, said, “Your 
mother confided and trusted in her, so why should not 
you ? ” 

The next moment Margaret was alone. For a long 
time she wept, and it was not until the eastern horizon 
began to grow gray in the morning twilight, that she 
laid her head upon her pillow, and forgot in sleep how 
unhappy she had been. Her words, however, w’ere not 
without their effect, for when the night came round on 
which her father was accustomed to pay his weekly visit, 
he staid at home, spending the whole evening with his 
daughters, and appearing really gratified at Margaret’s 
efibrts to entertain him. But, alas! the chain of the 
widow was too firmly thrown around him for a daugh- 
ter’s hand alone to sever the fast bound links. 

When the next Thursday evening came, Mag was con- 
fined to her room by a sick headache, from which she had 
been sufiTering all day. As night approached, she fre- 
quently asked if her father were below. At last, the 
front door opened, and she heard his step upon the pi- 
azza. Starting up, she hurried to the window, while at 
the same moment Mr. Hamilton paused, and raising his 
eyes, saw the white face of his daughter pressed against 
the window-pane, as she looked imploringly after him ; 
but there was not enough of power in a single look to de- 
ter him, and, wafting her a kiss, he turned away. Sadly 
Margaret watched him, until he disappeared down the 
long hill ; then, returning to her couch, she wept bitterly. 

Meantime, Mrs. Carter, who had been greatly chagrined 
at the non-appearance of Mr. Hamilton the week before, 


88 


THE HOMESTEAD ON THE HILLSIDE. 


was now confidently expecting him. He had not yet 
asked her to be his wife, and the delay somewhat annoyed 
both herself and Lenora. 

“ I declare, mother,” said Lenora, “ I should suppose 
you might contrive up something to bring matters to a 
focus. I think it’s perfectly ridiculous to see two old 
crones, who ought to be trotting their grandchildren, 
cooing and simpering away at each other, and all for 
nothing, too.” 

“ Can’t you be easy a while longer ?” asked Mrs. Car- 
ter ; “hasn’t he said everything he can say, except, ‘will 
you marry me ? ’ ” 

“A very important question, too,” returned Lenora; 
“ and I don’t know what business you have to expect any- 
thing from him until it is asked.” 

“ Mr. Hamilton is proud,” answered Mrs. Carter — “ is 
afraid of doing anything which might possibly lower him. 
How, if by any means I could make him believe that I 
had received an offer from some one fully if not more 
than his equal, I think it would settle the matter, and I’ve 
decided upon the following plan. I’ll write a proposal 

myself, sign old Judge B ’s name to it, and next time 

Mr. Hamilton comes, let him surprise me in reading it. 
Then, as he is such a dear^ long tried friend, it will be 
quite proper for me to confide in him, and ask his 
advice.” 

Lenora’s eyes opened wider, as she exclaimed, “ My 
gracious / who, but you, would ever have thought of 
that.” 

Accordingly the letter was written, sealed, directed, 
broken open, laughed over, and laid away in the stand 
drawer. 

“ Mr. Hamilton, mother,” said Lenora, as half an hour 
afterward, she ushered that gentleman into the room. 


KATE KIEBY, 


39 


But so wholly absorbed was the black bombasin and linen 
collar in the contents of an open letter, which she held in 
her hand, that the words were twice repeated, — “Mr. 
Hamilton, mother” — ere she raised her eyes ! Then com- 
mg forward with w^ell-feigned confusion, she apologized 
for not having observed him before, saying she was sure 
he would excuse her if he knew the contents of her letter. 
Of course he wanted to know, and of course she didn’t 
want to tell. He was too polite to urge her, and the con- 
versation soon took another channel. 

After a time Lenora left the room, and Mrs. Carter, 
again speaking of the letter, begged to make a confidant 
of Mr. Hamilton, and ask his advice. He heard the let- 
ter read through, and after a moment’s silence, asked, 
“ Do you hke him, Mrs. Carter ?” 

“ Why, — no, — I don’t think I do,” said she, “ but then 
the widow’s lot is so lonely.” 

“ I know it is,” sighed he, while through the keyhole 
of the opposite door came something which somided very 
much like a stifled laugh ! It was the hour of Ernest 
Hamilton’s temptation, and but for the remembrance of 
tlie sad, white fe,ce which had gazed so sorrowfully at him 
from the window, he had fallen. But Maggie’s presence 
seemed with him, — her voice whispered in his ear, “ Don’t 
do it, father, don’t,” — and he calmly answered that it 
would be a good match. But he could not, no he could 
not advi^ her to marry him ; so he qualified what he had 
said by asking her not to be in a hurry, — to wait awlfile. 
The laugh through the keyhole was changed to a hiss, 
which Mrs. Carter said must be the wind, although there 
was not enough stirring to move the rose bushes which 
grew by the door step ! 

So much was Mr. Hamilton held in thrall by the widow, 
that on his way home he hardly knew whether to be glad 




40 


THE HOMESTEAD ON THE HILLSIDE, 


or sorry that he had not proposed. If Judge B 

would marry her she surely was good enough for him. 
Anon, too, he recalled her hesitation about confessing 
that the judge was indifferent to her. J ealousy crept in, 
and completed what flattery and intrigue had commenced. 
One week from that night Ernest Hamilton and Luella 
Carter were engaged, but for appearance’s sake, their 
marriage was not to take place until the ensuing autumn. 


CHAPTER VI. 

RAISING THE WIND. 

“Where are you going now?” asked Mrs. Carter of 
her daughter, as she saw her prepaiing to go out one 
afternoon, a few weeks after the engagement. 

“ Going to raise the wind,” was the answer. 

“ Going to what ?” exclaimed Mrs. Carter. 

“To raise the wind! Are you deaf?” yelled Lenora. 

“ Raise the wind ! ” repeated Mrs. Carter ; “ what do 
you mean ? ” 

“ Mean what I say,” said Lenora ; and closing the door 
after her she left her mother to wonder “ wha^’esh mis- 
chief the little torment was at.” 

But she was bnly going to make a friendly call on 
Margaret and Carrie, the latter of whom she had heard 
was sick. 

“ Is Miss Hamilton at home ? ” asked she of the ser- 
vant girl, who answered her ring, and whom she had 
never seen before. 


RAISING THE WIND. 


41 


Yes, ma’am ; walk in the parlor. What name shall I 
give her if you please ? ” 

“ Miss Carter, — Lenora Carter ; ” and the servant girl 
departed, repeating to herself all the way up the stairs, 
“ Miss Carther, — Lenora Carther ! ” 

“ Lenora Carter want to see me ! ” exclaimed Masr, 
who, together with Kate Kirby, was in her sister’s room. 

“Yes, ma’am; an’ sure ’twas Miss Hampleton she was 
wishm’ to see,” said the Irish girl. 

“Well, I shall not go down,” answered Mag. “Tell 
her, Rachel, that I am otherwise engaged.” 

“ Oh, Maggie,” said Carrie, “ why not see her ? I 
would if I were you.” 

“ Rachel can ask her up here if you wish it,” answered 
Mag, “ hut I shall leave the room.” 

“ Faith, an’ what shall I do ? ” asked Rachel, who was 
fresh from “ swate Ireland ” and felt puzzled to know why 
a “ silk frock and smart bonnet ” should not always be 
welcome. 

“ Ask her up,” answered Kate. “ I’ve never seen her 
nearer than across the church and have some curiosity — ” 

A moment after Rachel thrust her head in at the par- 
lor door, saying, “ If you please, ma’am. Miss Marget is 
engaged, and does not want to see you, but Miss Carrie 
says you may come up there.” 

“Very well,” said Lenora; and tripping after the ser- 
vant gijijshe was soon in Carrie’s room. 

Afte^etaUing nearly aU the gossip of which she was 
mistress, she suddenly turned to Carrie, and said, “ Did 
you know that your father was going to be married ? ” 

“ My father going to be married ! ” said Carrie, open- 
ing her blue eyes in astonishment. “ My father going to 
be married ! To whom, pray ? ” 

“ To a lady from the east, — one whom he used to know 


42 


THE HOMESTEAD ON THE HILLSIDE. 


and flirt with when he was in college ! ” was Lenora’s 
grave reply. 

“ What is her name ? ” asked Kate. 

“ Her name ? Let me see, — Miss — Blackwell, — Black- 
mer, — Blachheart. It sounds the most like Blackheart.” 

“ What a queer name,” said Kate, “ but tell us what 
opportunity has Mr. Hamilton had of renevdng his early 
acquaintance with the lady.” 

“ Don’t you know he’s been east this winter ? ” asked 
Lenora. 

“Yes, as far as Albany,” answered Carrie. 

“Well,” continued Lenora, “’twas during his eastern 
trip that the matter was settled ; but pray don’t repeat 
it from me, except it be to Maggie, who, I dare say, wiU 
feel glad to be relieved of her heavy responsibilities ; — but 
as I hve, Carrie, you are crying ! What is the matter ? ” 

But Carrie made no answer, and for a time wept on in 
silence. She could not endure the thought that another 
would so soon take the jilace of her lost mother in the 
household and in the affections of her father. There was, 
besides, somethmg exceedingly annoying in the manner 
of her who communicated the intelligence, and secretly 
Carrie felt glad that the dreaded, “ Miss Blacldieart ” had, 
of course, no Lenora to bring mth her ! 

“ Do you know all this to be true ? ” asked Kate. 

“Perfectly true,” said Lenora. “We have friends liv- 
ing in the vicinity of the lady, and there can J^no mis- 
take, except indeed in the name, which I am sure is 
right ! ” 

Then hastily kissing Carrie, the little hussy went away, 
very well satisfied with her afternoon’s call. As soon as 
she was out of hearing Margaret entered her sister’s room, 
and on noticing Carrie’s flushed cheek and red eyes, in- 


EAISING THE WIND. 


43 


quired the cause. Immediately Kate told her what Le- 
iiora had said, hut instead of weeping as Carrie had done, 
she betrayed no emotion whatever. 

“ Why, Maggie, ain’t you sorry ? ” asked Carrie. 

“Ko, I am glad,” returned Mag. “I’ve seen all along 
that sooner or later father would make himself ridiculous, 
and I’d rather he’d marry forty women from the east, 
than one woman not far from here whom I know.” 

All that afternoon Mag tripped with unwonted gayety 
about the house. A weight was lifted from her heart, 
for in her estimation, any one whom her father would 
marry was preferable to Mrs. Carter. 

* * * 

Oh, how the widow scolded the daughter, and how the 
daughter laughed at the widow, when she related the par- 
ticulars of her call. 

“ Lenora, what could have possessed you to tell such a 
lie ? ” said Mrs. Carter. 

“Kot so fast, mother mine,” answered Lenora. 
“’Twasn’t a lie. Mr. Hamilton is engaged to a lady 
from the east. He did flirt with her in his younger days ; 
and, pray, didn’t he have to come east when he called to 
inquire after his beloved classmates, and ended by getting 
checkmated! Besides I think you ought to thank me 
for turnii^ the channel of gossip in another direction, 
for now wiU be saved from all impertinent questions 
and reniarks.” 

This mode of reasoning failed to convince the widow, 
who felt quite willing that people should know of her 
flattering prospects ; and when, a few days after, Mrs. 
Dr. Otis told her that Mrs. Kimball said that Polly Lar- 
kins said, that her hired girl told her, that Mrs. Kirby’s 


44 


THE HOMESTEAD ON THE HILLSIDE. 


hired girl told her, that she overheard Miss Kate telling 
her mother, that Lenora Carter said that Mr. Hamilton 
was going to he married to her mother’s intimate friend, 
Mrs. Carter would have denied the whole, and probably 
divulged her own secret, had not Lenora, who chanced 
to 'be present, declared, with the coolest effrontery, that 
’twas all true — that her mother had promised to stand up 
with them ; and so folks would find it to be if they did 
not die of curiosity before autumn ! 

Lenora, child, how can you talk so ? ” asked the dis- 
tressed lady, as the door closed upon her visitor. 

Lenora went off into fits of explosive laughter, bound- 
ing up and down like an India rubber ball, and at last 
condescended to say, “ I know what I’m about. Do you 
want Mag Hamilton breaking up the match, as she surely 
would do, between this and autumn, if she knew it ? ” 

“ And what can she do ? ” asked Mrs. Carter. 

“ Why, returned Lenora, “ can’t she write to the place 
you came from, if, indeed, such a spot can be found, for 
I believe you sometimes book yourself from one town 
and sometimes from another? But depend upon it, you 
had better take my advice and keep still, and in the de- 
nouement which follows, I alone shall be blamed for a 
slight stretch of truth which you can easily excuse, as 
“ one of dear Lenora’s silly, childish freaks ! ” 

Upon second thoughts Mrs. Carter concluded to fol- 
low her daughter’s advice, and the next tinAMr. Ham- 
ilton called, she laughingly told the story wmch Lenora 
had set afloat, saying, by way of excuse, that the dear 
girl did not like to hear her mother joked on the subject 
of matrimony, and had turned the attention of people 
another way. 

Mr. Hamilton hardly relished this, and half wished, 
mayhap, as, indeed, gentlemen generally do in similar cir- 


• • 


RAISING THE WIND. 


45 


cumstances, that the little “objection” in the shape of 
Lenora, had never had existence, or at least had never 
called the widow mother I 


CHAPTER VII. 

THE STEP-MOTHER. 

Rapidly the summer was passing away, and as autumn 
drew near, the wise gossips of Glenwood began to whis- 
per that the lady from the east was in danger of being 
supplanted in her rights by the widow, whose house Mr. 
Hamilton was known to visit two or three times each 
week. But Lenora had always some plausible story on 
hand. “Mother and the lady had been so intimate — in 
fact more than once rocked in the same cradle — and 
’twas no wonder Mr. Hamilton came often to a place 
where he could hear so much about her.” 

So when business again took Mr. Hamilton to Albany, 
suspicion was wholly lulled, and Walter, on his return 
from college, was told by Mag that her fears concerning 
Mrs. Carter were groundless. During the spring, Carrie 
had been confined to her bed, but now she seemed much 
better, and after Walter had been at home awhile, he 
proposed tfiat he and his sisters should take a traveling 
excursion, going first to Saratoga, thence to Lake Cham- 
plain and Montreal, and returning home by way of Canada 
and the Falls. This plan Mr. Hamilton warmly seconded, 
and when Carrie asked if he would not feel lonely, he 
answered, “ Oh, no ; Willie and I will do very well while 
you are gone.” 


46 


THE HOMESTEAD ON THE HILLSIDE. 


“ But who will stay with Willie evenings, when you 
are aw^ay ? ” asked Mag, looking her father steadily in 
the face. 

Mr. Hamilton colored slightly, but after a moment, re- 
plied : “ I shall spend my evenings at home.” 

“’Twill be what he hasn’t done for many a week,” 
thought Mag, as she again busied herself with her 
preparations. 

The morning came, at last, on which our travelers were 
to leave. Kate Kirby had been invited to accompany 
them, but her mother would not consent. “It would 
give people too much chance for talk,” she said ; so Kate 
was obliged to content herself with going as far as the 
depot, and watching, until out of sight, the car which 
bore them away. 

Upon the piazza stood the little group, awaiting the 
arrival of the carriage, wdiich was to convey them to the 
station. Mr. Hamilton seemed unusually gloomy, and 
with folded arms paced up and down the long piazza, 
rarely speaking or noticing any one. 

“ Are you sorry we are going, father ? ” asked Carrie, 
going up to him. “ If you are, I wiU gladly stay with 
you.” 

Mr. Hamilton paused, and pushing back the fair hair 
from his daughter’s white brow, he kissed her tenderly, 
saymg, “Ko, Carrie; I want you to go. The journey 
will do you good, for you are getting too much the look 
your poor mother used to wear.” 

Why thought he then of Carrie’s mother ? Was it be- 
cause he knew that ere his child returned to him, another 
would be in that mother’s place ? Anon, Margaret came 
near, and motioning Carrie away, Mr. Hamilton took his 
other daughter’s hand, and led her to the end of the 
piazza, where could easily be seen the little grave-yard, 


THE STEP-MOTHEE. 


47 


and tall white monument pointing toward the bright blue 
sky, where dwelt the one whose grave that costly marble 
marked. 

Pointing out the spot to Margaret, he said, “ Tell me 
truly, Maggie, did you love your father Or your mother 
best ? ” 

Mag looked w^onderingly at him a moment, and then 
replied, “ While mother lived, I loved her more than you, 
but now that she is dead, I think of and love you as both 
father and mother.” 

“ And will you always love me thus ? ” asked he. 

“ Always,” was Mag’s reply, as she looked curiously in 
her father’s face, and thinking that he had not said what 
he intended to when first he drew her there. 

Just then the carriage drove up, and after a few good- 
bys and parting words, Ernest Hamilton’s children were 
gone, and he was left alone. 

“ Why didn’t I tell her, as I intended to ? ” thought 
he. “ Is it because. I fear her, — fear my own child ? No, 
it cannot be, — and yet there is that in her eye which 
sometimes makes me quail, and which, if necessary, would 
keep at bay a dozen step-mothers. But neither she, nor 
either one of them, has ought to dread from Mrs. Carter, 
whose presence Avill, I think, be of great benefit to us all, 
and whose gentle manners, I trust, will tend to soften 
Mag ! ” 

Meantime his children were discussing and wondering 
at the strange mood of their father. Walter, however, 
took no part in the conversation. He had lived longer 
than his sisters, — had seen more of human nature, and 
had his own suspicions with regard to what would take 
place during their absence ; but he could not spoil all 
Margaret’s happiness by telling her his thoughts, so he 
kept them to himself, secretly resolving to make the best 


48 


THE HOMESTEAD ON THE HILLSIDE. 


of whatever might occur, and to advise Mag to do the 
same. 

ISTow for a time we leave them, and take a look into 
the cottage of Widow Carter, where, one September morn- 
ing, about three weeks after the departure of the Hamil- 
tons, preparations were making for some great event. In 
the kitchen a servant girl was busily at work, while in the 
parlor Lenora was talking and -the .widow was listening. 

“ Oh, mother,” said Lenora, “ isn’t it so nice that they 
went away just now ? But won’t Mag look daggers at 
us, when she comes home and finds us in quiet possession, 
and is told to call you mother / ” 

“ I never expect her to do that,” answered Mrs. Carter. 
“ The most I can hope for is that she will call me Mrs. 
Hamilton.” 

“Kow really, mother, if I were in Mag’s place, I 
wouldn’t please you enough to say Mrs. Hamilton ; I’d 
always call you Mrs. Carter,” said Lenora. 

“ How absurd,” was. the reply ; and Lenora continued : 
“ I know it’s absurd, but I’d do it'; rthdugL’if she does, I, 
as the dutiful child of a most worthy parent, shall feel 
compelled to resent the insult by calling her father Mr, 
Carter ! ” 

By this time Mrs. Carter was needed in the kitchen ; 
so, leaving Lenora, who at once was the pest and torment 
of her mother’s life, we will go into the village and see 
what effect the approaching nuptials were producing. It 
was now generally known that the “ lady from the east ” 
who had been “ rocked in Mrs. Carter’s cradle,” was none 
other than Mrs. Carter herself, and many were the re- 
proving looks which the people had cast toward Lenora 
for the trick she had put upon them. The little hussy 
only laughed at them good humoredly, telling them tliey 
were angry because she had cheated them out of five 


THE STEP-MOTHEE. 


49 


months’ gossip, and that if her mother could have had her 
way, she would have sent the news to the Herald and had 
it inserted under the head of “Awful Catastrophe!” 
Thus Mrs. Carter was exonerated from all blame ; but 
many a wise old lady shook her head, saying, “How 
strange that so fine a woman as Mrs. Carter should have 
such a reprobate of a daughter.” 

When this remark came to Lenora’s ears, she cut nu- 
merous flourishes, which ended in the upsetting of a bowl 
of starch on her mother’s new black silk ; then dancing 
before the highly indignant lady, she said, “ Perhaps if 
they knew what a scapegrace you represent my father to 
have been, and how you whipped me once to make me 
say I saw him strike you, when I never did, they would 
wonder at my being as good as I am.” 

Mrs. Carter was too furious to venture a verbal reply ; 
so seizing the starch bowl, she hurled it with the remain- 
der of the contents at the head of the little vixen, who, 
with an elastic bound, not entirely unlike a summerset, 
dodged the missile, which passed on and fell upon the 
hearth rug. 

This is but one of a series of similar scenes, which oc- 
curred between the widow and her child before the happy 
day arrived, when, in the presence of a select few of the 
villagers, Luella Carter was transformed into Luella Ham- 
ilton. The ceremony was scarcely over, when Mr. Ham- 
ilton, who for a few days had been rather indisposed, 
complained of feeling sick. Immediately Lenora, with a 
sidelong glance at her mother, exclaimed, “ What, sick 
of your bargain so quick? It’s sooner, even, than I 
thought ’t would be, and I’m sure I’m capable of 
judging.” 

“ Dear Lenora,” said Mrs. Carter, turnmg toward one 
C 4 


50 THE HOMESTEAD ON THE HILLSIDE. 

of her neighbors, “ she has such a flow of spirits, that I 
am afraid Mr. Hamilton will find her troublesome. 

“ Don’t be alarmed, mother ; he’ll never think of me 
when you are around,” was Lenora’s reply, in which Mrs. 
Carter saw more than one meaning. 

That evening the bridal party repaired to the home- 
stead, where, at Mr. Hamilton’s request, Mrs. Kirby was 
waiting to receive them. Willie had been told by the 
servants that his mother was coming home that night, 
and, with the trusting faith of childhood, he had drawn a 
chair to the window from which he could see his mother’s 
grave ; and there for more than an hour he watched for 
the first indications of her comuig, saying, occasionally, 
“ Oh, I wish she’d come. Willie’s so sorry here^” 

At last growing weary and discouraged, he turned 
away and said, “Ko ma’U never come home again ; Mag- 
gie said she wouldn’t.” 

Upon the carriage road which wound from the street 
to the house, there was the sound of coming wheels, and 
Rachel, seizing Willie, bore him to the front door, ex- 
claiming, “ An’ faith, Wilhe, don’t you see her ? That’s 
your mother, honey, with the black gown.” . 

But Willie saw only the wild eyes of Lenora, who 
caught him in her arms, overwhelming him with caresses. 
“ Let me go, Leno,” said he “ I want to see my ma. 
Where is she ? ” 

A smile of scorn curled Lenora’s lips, as she released 
him, and leading him toward her mother, she said, 
“There she is; there’s your ma. Kow hold up your 
head and make ^ bow.” 

Willie’s hp quivered, his eyes filled with tears, and 
hiding his face m his apron, he sobbed, “ I want my own 
ma, — the one they shut up in a big black box. Where 
is she, Leno ? 


THE STEP-MOTHER. 


51 


Mr. Hamilton took Willie on his knee, and tried to ex- 
plain to him, how that now his own mother was dead, he 
had got a new one, who would love him and he kind to 
him. Then putting him down, he said, “ Go, my son, and 
speak to her, won’t you ? ” 

Willie advanced rather cautiously toward the black 
silk figure, which reached out its hand, saying, “ Dear 
Willie, you’ll love me a little, won’t you ? ” 

“ Yes, if you are good to me,” was the answer, which 
made the new step-mother mentally exclaim, “ A young 
rebel, I know,” while Lenora, bending between the two, 
whispered emphatically, “ She shall be good to you ! ” 

And soon, in due order, the servants were presented to 
their new mistress. Some were disposed to like her, 
others eyed her askance, and old Polly Pepper, the black 
cook, who had been in the family ever since Mr. Hamil- 
ton’s first marriage, returned her salutation rather gruffly, 
and then, stalking back to the kitchen, muttered to those 
who followed her, “ I don’t like her face no how ; she 
looks just like the milk-snakes, when they stick their heads 
in at the door.” 

“ But you knew how she looked before,” said Lucy, the 
chambermaid. 

“ I know it,” returned Polly ; “ but when she was here 
nussin’, I never noticed Aer, more’n I would any on you ; 
for who’d of thought that Mr. Hamilton would marry 
her, when he knows, or or’to know, that nusses ain’t fust 
cut, no how ; and you may depend on’t, things ain’t a 
goin’ to be here as they used to be.” 

Here Rachel started up, and related the circumstance of 
Margaret’s refusing to see “ that little evil-eyed lookin’ 
varmint, with curls almost like Polly’s.” 

Lucy, too, suddenly remembered something which she 
had seen, or heard, or made up, so that Mrs. Carter had 


52 


THE HOMESTEAD ON THE HILLSIDE. 


not been an hour in the coveted homestead ere there was 
mutiny against her afloat in the kitchen; “But,” said 
Aunt Polly, “ I ’vises you all to be civil till she sasses you 
fust ! ” 


% ^ ^ ^ ^ 

“ My dear, what room can Lenora have for her own ? ” 
asked Mrs, Hamilton, as we must now call her, the morn- 
ing following her marriage. 

“ Why, really, I don’t know,” answered the husband ; 
“ you must suit yourselves with regard to that.” 

“ Yes ; but I’d rather you’d select, and then no one can 
blame me,” was the answer. 

“ Choose any room you please, except the one which 
Mag and Carrie now occupy, and rest assured you shall 
not be blamed,” said Mr. Hamilton. 

The night before, Lenora had appropriated to herself 
the best chamber, but the room was so large and so far 
distant from any one, and tlie windows and flreboard rat- 
tled so, that she felt afraid, and did not care to repeat her 
experiment. 

“ I ’clar for ’t ! ” said Polly, when she heard of it, 
“ Gone right into the best bed, where even Miss Marga- 
ret never goes ! What are we all cornin’ to ? Tell her, 
Luce, the story of the ghosts, and I’ll be bound she’ll make 
herself scarce in them rooms ! ” 

“ Tell her yourself,” said Lucy ; and when, after break- 
fast, Lenora, anxious to spy out everything, appeared in 
the kitchen. Aunt Polly called out, “ Did you hear any- 
thing last night. Miss Lenora ? ” 

“ Why, yes — I heard the windows rattle,” was the an- 
swer ; and Aunt Polly, with an ominous shake of the 
head, continued : “ There’s more than windows rattle, I 


THE STEP-MOTHER. 


63 


guess. Didn’t you see nothin’, all white and corpse-like, 
go a whizzin’ and rappin’ by your bed ? ” 

“ Why, no,” said Lenora ; “ what do you mean ? ” 

So Polly told her of the ghosts and goblins which 
nightly ranged the two chambers, over the front and back 
‘‘parlors. Lenora said nothing, but she secretly resolved 
not to venture again after dark into the haunted portion 
of the house. But where should she sleep?. That was 
now the important question. Adjoining the sitting-room 
was a pleasant, cozy little place, which Margaret called 
her music-room. In it she kept her piano, her music- 
stand, books, and several fine plants, besides numerous 
other little conveniences. At the end of this room was a 
large closet, where, at different seasons of the year, Mag 
hung away the articles of clothing which she and her sis- 
ter did not need. 

Toward this place Lenora turned her eyes ; for, besides 
being unusually pleasant, it was also very near her mother, 
whose sleeping-room joined, though it did not communi- 
cate with it. Accordingly, before noon the piano was re- 
moved to the parlor; the plants were placed, some on 
the piazza, and some in the sitting-room window, while 
Margaret and Carrie’s dresses were removed to the closet 
of their room, which chanced to be a trifle too small to 
hold them all conveniently ; so they were crowded one 
above the other, and left for “ the girls to see to when 
they came home ! ” 

In perfect horror Aunt Polly looked on, regretting for 
once the ghost story which she had told. 

“ Why don’t you take the chamber jinin’ the young la- 
dies ? that ain’t liaunted,” said she, when they sent for 
her to help move the piano. “ Miss Margaret won’t thank 
you for scatterin’ her things.” 


54 


THE HOMESTEAD ON THE HILLSIDE. 


“ You’ve nothing to do with Lenora,” said Mrs. Ham- 
ilton ; “ you’ve only to attend to your owm matters.” 

“Wonder then what I’m up here for a h’istin’ this pl- 
anner,” muttered Polly. “ This ain’t my matters, sartin’.” 

When Mr. Hamilton came in to dinner, he was show 
the little room with its single bed, tiny bureau, silken 
lounge and easy chair, of which the last two were Mag’s 
especial property. 

“ All very nice,” said he, “ but where is Mag’s piano ? ” 

“In the parlor,” answered his wife. “People often 
ask for music, and it is more convenient to have it there, 
than to come across the hall and through the sitting- 
room.” 

Mr. Hamilton said nothing, but he secretly wished 
Mag’s rights had not been invaded quite so soon. His 
wife must have guessed as much ; for, laying her hand on 
his, she, with the utmost deference, offered to undo all 
she had done, if it did not please him. 

“Certainly not — certainly not; it does please me,” 
said he ; while Polly, who stood on the cellar stairs lis- 
tening, exclaimed, “ What a fool a woman can make of a 
man ! ” 

Three days after Mr. Hamilton’s marriage, he received 
a letter fi'om Walter, saying that they would be at home 
on the Thursday night following. Willie was in ecstasies, 
for though, as yet, he liked his new mother tolerably well, 
he still loved Maggie better ; and the thought of seeing 
her again made him wild with delight. All day long on 
Thursday he sat in the doorway, listening for the shrill 
cry of the tram which was to bring her home. 

“ Don’t you love Maggie ? ” said he to Lenora, who 
chanced to pass him. 

“Don’t I love Maggie? Ho, I don’t; neither does 
she love me,” was the answer. 


THE STEP-MOTHER. 


65 


Willie was puzzled to know why any one should not 
like Mag ; but his confidence in her was not at all shaken, 
and when, soon after sunset, Lenora cried, “There, 
they’ve come,” he rushed to the door, and was soon in 
the arms of his sister-mother. Pressing his lips to hers, 
he said, “ Did you know I’d got a new mother ? Mrs. 
Carter and Leno — they are in there,” pointing toward 
the parlor. 

Instantly Mag dropped him. It was the first intima- 
tion of her father’s marriage which she had received, and 
reeling backward, she would have fallen, had not Walter 
supported her. Quickly rallying, she advanced toward 
her father, who came to meet her, and whose hand trem- 
bled in her grasp. After greeting each of his children, 
he turned to present them to his wife^ wisely taking Car- 
rie first. She was not prejudiced, like Mag, and returned 
her step-mother’s salutation with something like affec- 
tion, for which Lenora rewarded her by terming her a 
“little simpleton.” 

But Mag — she who had warned her father against that 
woman — she who on her knees had begged him not to 
marry her — she had no word of welcome, and when Mrs. 
Hamilton offered her hand, she affected not to see it, 
though, with the most frigid politeness, she said, “ Good 
evening, madam ; this is, indeed, a surprise ! ” 

“ And not a very pleasant one, either, I imagine,” whis- 
pered Lenora to Carrie. 

Walter came last, and though he took the lady’s hand, 
there was something in his manner which plainly said, 
she was not wanted there. Tea was now announced, and 
Mag bit her lip when she saw her accustomed seat occu- 
pied by another. 

Feigning to recollect herself, Mrs. Hamilton, in the 


66 


THE HOMESTEAD ON THE HILLSIDE. 


blandest tones, said, “ Perhaps, dear Maggie, you would 
prefer this seat ? ” 

“ Of course not,” said Mag ; while Lenora thought to 
herself, “And if she does, I wonder what good it will 
do?” 

That young lady, however, made no remarks, for Wal- 
ter Hamilton’s searching eyes were upon her and kept 
her silent. After tea, Walter said, “ Come, Mag, I have 
not heard your piano in a long time. Give us some 
music.” 

Mag arose to comply -with his wishes, but ere she had 
reached the door, Mrs. Hamilton, gently detained her, 
saying, “ Maggie, dear, Lenora has always slept near me, 
and as I knew you would not object, if you were here, 
I took the liberty to remove your piano to the parlor, and 
to fit this up for Lenora’s sleeping room. See — ” and she 
threw open the door, disclosing the metamorphose, while 
Willie, who began to get an inkling of matters, and who 
always called the piazza “ out doors,” chimed in, “ And 
they throw’d your little trees out doors, too !” 

Mag stood for a moment, mute with astonishment ; 
then, thinking she could not “ do the subject justice,” 
she turned silently away. A roguish smile from Walter 
met ‘her eye, but she did not laugh, until, with Carrie, 
she repaired to her own room, and tried to put some- 
thing in the closet. Then coming upon the pile of extra 
clothes, she exclaimed, “ What in the world ! Here’s all 
our winter clothing, and, as I live, five dresses crammed 
upon one nail ! We’ll have to move to the barn, next ! ” 

This was too much, and sitting down, Mag cried and 
laughed alternately. 


DOMESTIC LIFE AT THE HOMESTEAD. 


67 


CHAPTER VIII. 

DOMESTIC LIFE AT THE HOMESTEAD. 

For a few weeks after Margaret’s return, matters at 
the homestead glided on smoothly enough, hut at the end 
of that time Mrs. Hamilton began to reveal her real char- 
acter. Cariie’s journey had not been as beneficial as her 
father had hoped it would be, and as the days grew colder, 
she complained of extreme languor and a severe pain in 
her side, and at last kept her room entirely, notwithstand- 
ing the numerous hints from her step-mother, that it was 
no small trouble to carry so many dishes up and down 
stairs three times a day. 

Mrs. Hamilton was naturally very stirring and active, , 
and in spite of her remarkable skill in nursing, she felt ex- 
ceedingly annoyed when any of her own family were ill. 
She fancied, too, that Carrie was feigning all her bad 
feelings, and that she would be much better if she ex- 
erted herself more. Accordingly, one afternoon when 
Mag was gone, she repaired to Carrie’s room, giving vent 
to her opinion as follows : “ Carrie,” said she, (she now 

dropped the dear^ when Mr. Hamilton was not by,) “ Car- 
rie, I shouldn’t suppose you’d ever expect to get well, so 
long as you stay moped up here all day. You ought to 
come down stairs, and stir round more.” 

“ Oh, I should be so glad if I could,” answered Carrie. 

“ Could ! ” repeated Mrs. Hamilton ; “ you could if 
you would. Now, it’s my opinion that you complain al- 
together too much, and fancy you are a great deal Avorse 
than you really are, when all you want is exercise. A 
short walk on the piazza, and a little fresh air, each morn- 
ing, would soon cure you.” 

C* 


68 


THE HOMESTEAD ON THE HILLSIDE. 


“ I know fi'esh air does me good,” said Carrie ; “ but 
walking makes my side ache so hard, and makes me 
cough so, that Maggie thinks I’d better not.” 

Mag, quoted as authority, exasperated Mrs. Hamilton, 
who replied, rather sharply, “Fudge on Mag’s old-maid- 
ish whims ! I know that any one who eats as much as 
you do, can’t be so very weak ! ” 

“ I don’t eat half you send me,” said poor Carrie, be- 
ginning to cry at her mother’s unkind remarks ; “ Willie 
most always comes up here and eats with me.” 

“ For mercy’s sake^jncther, let the child have what she 
wants to eat, for ’tisn’t long she’ll need it,” said Lenora, 
suddenly appearing in the room. 

“ Lenora, go right down ; you are not wanted here,” 
said Mrs. Hamilton. 

“Neither are you, I fancy,” was Lenora’s reply, as she 
coolly seated herself on the foot of Carrie’s bed, while her 
mother continued : “ Really, Carrie, you must try and 

come down to your meals, for you have no idea how 
much it hinders the work, to bring them up here. Polly 
isn’t good for anything until she has conjured up some- 
thing extra for your breakfast, and then they break so 
many dishes ! ” 

“ I’ll try to come down to-morrow,” said Carrie, meek- 
ly ; and, as the door bell just then rang, Mrs. Hamilton 
departed, leaving her with Lenora, whose first exclama- 
tion was, “ If I were in your place, Carrie, I wouldn’t eat 
anything, and die quick.” 

“ I don’t want to die,” said Carrie ; and Lenora, clap- 
ping her hands together, replied, “ Why, you poor little 
innocent, who supposed you did? Nobody wants to die, 
not even good as I am ; but I should expect to, if I 
had the consumption.” 

“Lenora, have I got the consumption?” asked Carrie, 


1>0MESTIC LIFE AT THE HOMESTEAD. 


59 


fixing her eyes with mournful earnestness upon her com- 
panion, who thoughtlessly replied : “ To be sure you 
have. They say one lung is entirely gone, and the other 
nearly so.” 

Wearily the sick girl turned upon her side; and, rest- 
ing her dimpled cheek upon her hand, she said, softly, 
“ Go away now, Lenora ; I want to be alone.” 

Lenora complied, and when Margaret returned from 
the village, she found her sister lying in the same posi- 
tion in which Lenora had left her, with her fair hair fall- 
ing over her face, which it hid from view. 

“Are you asleep, Carrie ? ” said Mag; but Carrie made 
no answer, and there was something so still and motion- 
less in her repose, that Mag went up to her, and pushing 
back from her face the long silken hah*, saw that she had 
fainted. 

The excitement of her step-mother’s visit, added to the 
starthng news which Lenora had told her, were too much 
for her weak nerves, and for a time she remained insensi- 
ble. At length, rousing herself, she looked dreamily 
around, saying, “Was it a dream, Maggie — all a dream? ” 

“Was what a dream, love?” said Margaret, support- 
ing her sister’s head upon her bosom. 

Suddenly Carrie remembered the whole, but she re- 
solved not to tell of her step-mother’s visit, though she 
earnestly desired to know if what Lenora had told her Avere 
true. Raising herself, so that she could see Margaret’s 
face, she said, “ Maggie, is there no hope for me ; and do 
the physicians say I must die ? ” 

“ Why, what do you mean ? I never knew that they 
said so,” answered Mag ; and then with breathless indig- 
nation she listened, while Carrie told her what Lenora 
had said. “I’ll see that she doesn’t get in here again,” 
said Margaret. “ I know she made more than half of 


60 


THE HOMESTEAD ON THE HILLSIDE. 


that up ; for, though the physicians say your lungs are 
very much diseased, they have never said that you could 
not recover.” 

The next morning, greatly to Mag’s astonishment, Car- 
rie insisted upon going down to breakfast. 

“ Why, you must not do it ; you are not able,” said 
Mag. But Carrie was determined; and, wrapping her- 
self in her thick shawl, she slowly descended the stairs, 
though the cold air in the long hall made her shiver. 

“ Carrie, dear, you are better this morning, and there 
is quite a rosy flush on your cheek,” said Mrs. Hamilton, 
rising to meet her. (Mr. Hamilton, be it remembered, 
was present.) But Carrie shrank instinctively from her 
step-mother’s advances, and took her seat by the side of 
her father. 

After breakfast, Mag remembered that she had an er- 
rand in the village, and Carrie, who felt too weary to re- 
turn immediately to her room, said she would wait be- 
low until her sister returned. Mag had been gone but a 
few moments, when Mrs. Hamilton, opening the outer 
door, called to Lenora, sajdng, “ Come and take a few 
turns on the piazza with Carrie. The air is bracing this 
morning, and will do her good.” 

Willie, who Avas present, cried out, “No — Carrie is 
sick ; she can’t walk — Maggie said she couldn’t,” and he 
grasped his sister’s hand to hold her. With a not very 
gentle jerk, Mrs. Hamilton pulled him ofi*, while Lenora, 
wdio came bobbing and bounding into the room, took 
Carrie’s arm, saying, “ Oh yes. I’ll Avalk with you ; shall 
W'e have a hop, skip, or jump ? ” 

“ Don’t, don’t ! ” said Carrie, holding back ; “ I can’t 
walk fast, Lenora,” and actuated by some sudden impulse 
of kindness, Lenora conformed her steps to those of the 
invalid. Tmce they walked up and down the piazza, and 


DOMESTIC LIFE AT THE HOMESTEAD, 


61 


■were about turning for the third time, when Carrie, 
clasping her hand over her side, exclauned, “No, no; I 
can’t go again.” 

Little Willie, who fancied that his sister was being 
hurt, sprang toward Lenora, sajdng, “ Leno, you mustn’t 
hurt Carrie. Let her go ; she’s sick.” 

And now to the scene of action came Dame Hamilton, 
and seizing her young step-son, she tore him away from 
Lenora, administering, at the same time, a bit of a moth- 
erly shake. Willie’s blood was up, and in return he dealt 
her blow, for which she rewarded hun by another shake, 
and by tying him to the table. 

That Lenora was not all bad, was shown by the unself- 
ish affection she ever manifested for Willie, although her 
untimely interference between him and her mother often- 
times made matters worse. Thus, on the occasion of 
which we have been speaking, Mrs. Hamilton had scarcely 
left the room ere Lenora released Willie from his confine- 
ment, thereby giving him the impression that his mother 
alone was to blame. Fortunately, however, Margaret’s 
judgment was better, and though she felt justly indig- 
nant at the cruelty practiced upon poor Carrie, she could 
not uphold Willie in striking his mother. Calling him to 
her room, she talked to him until he was wholly softened, 
and offered, of his own accord, to go and say he was sorry, 
provided Maggie would accompany him as far as the door 
of the sitting-room, where his mother would probably be 
found. Accordingly, Mag descended the stairs with him, 
and meeting Lenora in the hall, said, “ Is she in the sit- 
ting-room ? ” 

“ Is she in the sitting room ? ” repeated Lenora, “ and 
pray who may she be ? ” then quick as thought she 
added, “ Oh, yes, I know. She is in there telling he ! ” 

Lenora was right in her conjecture, for Mrs. Hamilton, 


62 


THE HOMESTEAD ON THE HILLSIDE, 


greatly enraged at Willie’s presumption in striking her, 
and still more provoked at him for untying himself, as 
she supposed he had, was laying before her husband 
quite an aggravated case of assault and battery. 

In the midst of her argument Willie entered the room, 
with tear-stained eyes, and without noticing the pres- 
ence of his father, went directly to his mother, and burying 
his face in her lap, sobbed out, “ Willie is sorry he struck 
you, and wiU never do so again, if you wiU forgive him.” 

In a much gentler tone than she would have assumed had 
not her husband been present, Mrs. Hamilton replied, “ I 
can forgive you for striking me, Willie, but what have you 
to say about untying yourself? ” 

“I didn’t do it,” said Willie, ‘‘Leno did that.” 

“ Be careful what you say,” returned Mrs. Hamilton. 
“ I can’t believe Lenora would do so.” 

Ere Willie had time to repeat his assertion, Lenora, 
who all the time had been standing by the door, appeared, 
saying, “ you may believe liim, for he has never been 
whipped to make him lie. I did do it, and I would do it 
again.” 

“ Lenora,” said Mr. Hamilton, rather sternly, “ you 
should not interfere in that manner. You wiU spoil the 
child.” 

It was the first time he had presumed to reprove his 
step-daughter, and as there was nothing on earth which 
Mrs. Hamilton so much feared as Lenora’s tongue, she 
dreaded the disclosures which farther remark from her 
husband might caU forth. So, assuming an air of great 
distress, she said, “ leave her to me, my dear. She is a 
strange girl, as I always told you, and no one can man- 
age her as well as myself.” Then kissing Willie in token 
of forgiveness, she left the room, drawing Lenora after 
her and whispering fiercely in her ear, “how can you 


DOMESTIC LIFE AT THE HOMESTEAD. 


63 


ever expect to succeed with the son, if you show off this 
way before the father.” 

With a mocking laugh, Lenora replied, “Pshaw! I 
gave that up the first time I ever saw him, for of course 
he thinks me a second edition of Mrs. Carter, minus any 
improvements. But, he’s mistaken ; I’m not half as bad 
as I seem. I’m only what you’ve made me.” 

Mrs. Hamilton turned away, thinking that if her daugh- 
ter could so easily give up Walter Hamilton, she would 
not. She was resolved upon an alliance between him and 
Lenora. And who ever knew her to fail in what she 
undertook ! 

She had wrung from her husband the confession, that 
“he believed therfe was a sort of childish affection be- 
tween Walter and Kate Kirby, though ’twas doubtful 
whether it ever amounted to anything.” She had also 
learned that he was rather averse to the match, and 
though Lenora had not yet been named as a substitute 
for Kate, she strove, in many ways, to impress her hus- 
band with a sense of her daughter’s superior abilities, at 
the same time taking pains to mortify Margaret by set- 
ting Lenora above her. 

For this, however, Margaret cared but little, and it 
was only when her mother ill-treated Willie, which she 
frequently did, that her spirit was fully roused. 

At Mrs. Hamilton’s first marriage she had been pre- 
sented with a handsome glass pitcher, which she of course 
greatly prized. One day it stood upon the stand in her 
room, where Willie was also playing with some spools, 
which Lenora had found and arranged for him. Malta, 
the pet kitten, was amusing herself by running after the 
spools, and when at last Willie, becoming tired, laid them 
on the stand, she sprang toward them, upsetting the 
pitcher, which was broken in a dozen pieces. On hearing 


64 


THE HOMESTEAD ON THE HILLSIDE. 

tlie crash, Mrs. Hamilton hastened toward the room, 
where ■ the sight of her favorite pitcher in fragments 
greatly enraged her. Thinking, of course, that Willie had 
done it, she rudely seized him by the arm, administered 
a cuft" or so, and then dragged him toward the china 
closet. 

As soon as Whlie could regain his breath, he screamed, 
“ Oh, ma, don’t shut me up ; I’ll be good ; I didn’t do it, 
certain true ; kittie knocked it off.” 

“ None of your lies,” said Mrs. Hamilton.” It’s likely 
kittie knocked it off ! ” 

Lenora, who had seen the whole, and knew that what 
Willie said was true, was about coming to the rescue, 
when looking up, she saw Margaret, with dilated nostrils 
and eyes flashing Are, watching the proceedmgs of her 
step-mother. 

“ He’s safe,” thought Lenora ; “ I’ll let Mag fire the first 
gun, and then I’ll bring up the rear.” 

Margaret had never known Willie to tell a lie, and had 
no reason for thinking he had done so in this instance. 
Besides, the blows her mother gave him exasperated her, 
and she stepped forward, just as Mrs. Hamilton was about 
pushing liim into the closet. So engrossed was that lady 
that she heard not Margaret’s approach, until a firm hand 
was laid upon her shoulder, while Willie was violently 
wrested from her grasp, and ere she could recover from 
her astonishment, she herself was pushed into the closet, 
the door of which was closed and locked against her. 

“Bravo, Margaret Hamilton,” cried Lenora, “I’m with 
you now, if I never was before. It serves her right, for 
Willie told the truth. I was sitting by and saw it aU. 
Keep her in there an hour, wiU you ? It will pay her for 
the many times she has shut me up for nothing.” 


DOMESTIC LIFE AT THE UOMESTEAD. 


66 


Mrs. Hamilton stamped and pushed against the door, 
while Lenora danced and sung at the top of her voice, 

** My dear precious mother got wrathy one day, 

And seized little Will by the hair ; 

But when in the closet she’d stow him away, 

She herself was pushed headlong in there.” 

At length the bolt, yielding to the continued pressure 
of Mrs. Hamilton’s body, broke, and out came the terma- 
gant, foaming with rage. She dared not molest Margaret, 
of whose physical powers she had just received such mor- 
tifying proof, so she aimed a box at the ears of Lenora. 
But the lithe little thing dodged it, and with one bound 
cleared the table which sat in the center of the room, 
landing safely on the other side; and then, shaking her 
short, black curls at her mother, she said, “ You didn’t 
come it, that time, my darling.” 

Mr. Hamilton, who chanced to be absent for a few 
days, was, on his return, regaled with an exaggerated 
account of the proceeding, his wife ending her discourse 
by saying — “ If you don’t do something with your up- 
start daughter. I’ll leave the house ; yes, I will.” 

Mr. Hamilton was cowardly. He was afraid of his 
wife, and he was afraid of Mag. So he tried to compro- 
mise the matter, by promising the one that he surely 
would see to it, and by asking the other if she were not 
ashamed. But old Polly didn’t let the matter pass so 
easily. She was greatly shocked at having “ such shame- 
ful carryin’s on in a decent man’s house.” 

“ ’ Clare for’t,” said she, “ I’ll give marster a piece of 
Polly Pepper’s mind the fust time I get a lick at him.” 

In the course of a few days Mr. Hamilton had occasion 
to go for something into Aunt Polly’s dominions. The 
old lady was ready for him. “ Mr. Hampleton,” said she, 

« I’ve been waitin’ to see you this long spell.” 

5 


66 


THE HOMESTEAD ON THE HILLSIDE. 


“ To see me, Polly ? ” said he ; “ what do you want ? ” 

“ What I wants is this,” answ^ered Polly, dropping into 
a chair. “ I want to know what this house is a cornin’ to, 
with such bedivilment in it as there’s been since madam 
came here with that little black-headed, ugly-favored, ill- 
begotten, Satan-possessed, shoulder-unj’inted young-one 
of her’n. It’s been notliin’ but a row^dedow the whole 
time, and you hain’t grit enough to stop it. Madam 
boxes Willie, and undertakes to shet him up for a lie he 
never told ; Miss Margaret interferes jest as she or’to, takes 
Willie away, and shets up madam ; while that ill-marnered 
Lenora jumps and screeches loud enough to wake the 
dead. Madam busts the door down, and pitches into the 
varmint, who jumps spang over a four foot table, which 
Lord knows I never could have done in my spryest 
days.” 

“ But how can I help all this ?” asked Mr. Hamilton. 

“Help it?” returned Polly, “ You needn’t have got 
into the fire in the fust place. I hain’t lived, fifty odd 
year for nothin’, and though I hain’t no lamin’, I know 
too much to heave myself away on the fust nussin’ wo- 
man that comes along.” 

“ Stop, Polly ; you must not speak so of Mrs Hamil- 
ton,” said Mr. Hamilton ; while Polly continued : “ And 
I wouldn’t nuther, if she could hold a candle to the t’other 
one ; but she can’t. You’d no business to marry a second 
time, even if you didn’t marry a nuss ; neither has any 
man, who’s got growd up gals, and a faithful critter like 
Polly in the kitchen. Step-mothers don’t often do vrell ; 
particularly them as is sot up by marryin’.” 

Here Mr. Hamilton, who did not like to hear so much 
truth, left the kitchen, while Aunt Polly said to herself, 
“ I’ve gin it to him good, this time.” 

Lenora, who always happened to be near when she was 


67 


DOMESTIC LIFE AT THE HOMESTEAD. 

talked about, had overheard the whole, and repeated it. to 
her mother. Accordingly, that very afternoon word 
came to the kitchen that Mrs. Hamilton wished to see 
Polly. 

“Reckon she’ll find this child ain’t afeard on her,” said 
Polly, as she wdped the flour from her face and repaired 
to Mrs. Hamilton’s room. 

“ Polly,” began that lady, with a very grave face, “ Le- 
nora tells me that you have been talking very disrespect- 
fully to Mr. Hamilton.” 

“ In the name of the Lord, can’t he fight his o^Yn bat- 
tles?” interrupted Polly. “I only tried to show him 
that he was henpecked, and he is.” 

“ It isn’t of him alone I would speak,” resumed Mrs. 
Hamilton, with stately gravity ; “ you spoke insultingly 
of me, and as I make it a practice never to keep a servant 

after they get insolent, I have ” 

For the dear Lord’s sake,” again interrupted Polly, 
“ I ’spect we’s the fust servants you ever had.” 

“ Good ! ” said a voice from some quarter, and Mrs. 
Hamilton continued : “ I have sent for you to give you 
twenty-four hours’ warning to leave this house.” 

“I shan’t budge an inch until marster says so,” said 
Polly. “ W onder who’s the best title deed here ? Warn’t 
I here long afore you come a nussin’ t’other one ? ” 

And Polly went back to the kitchen, secretly fearing 
that Mr. Hamilton, who she knew was wholly ruled by 
his wife, would say that she must go. And he did say so, 
though much against his will. Lenora ran with the de- 
cision to Aunt Polly, causing her to drop a loaf of new 
bread. But the old negress chased her from the cellar 
with the oven broom, and then stealing by a back stair- 
case to Margaret’s room, laid the case before her, ac- 
knowledging that she was sorry, and asking her young 


68 


THE HOMESTEAD ON THE HILLSIDE. 


mistress to intercede for her. Margaret stepped to the 
head of the stairs, and calling to her father, requested 
him to come for a moment to her room. This he was more 
ready to db, as he had no suspicion why he was sent for, 
but on seeing old Polly, he half resolved to turn back. 
Margaret, however, led him into the room, and then en- 
treated him not to send away one who had served him so 
long, and so faithfully. 

Polly, too, joined in with her tears and prayers, saying, 
“ She was an old black fool any way, and let her tongue 
get the better on h er, though she didn’t mean to say more 
than was true, and reckoned she hadn’t.” 

In his heart Mr. Hamilton wished to revoke what he 
had said, but dread of the explosive storm which he knew 
would surely follow, made him irresolute, until Carrie 
said, “ Father, the first person of whom I have any definite 
recollection is Aunt Polly, and I shall be so lonesome if 
she goes away. For my sake let her stay, at least until I 
am dead.” 

This decided the matter. “ She shall stay,” said Mr. 
Hamilton, and Aunt Polly, highly elated, returned to the 
kitchen with the news. Lenora, who seemed to be every- 
where at once, overheard it, and, bent on mischief, ran 
with it to her mother. In the meantime, Mr. Hamilton 
wished, yet dreaded, to go down, and finally, mentally 
cursing himself for his weakness, asked Margaret to ac- 
company him. She was about to comply with his request, 
when Mrs. Hamilton came up the stairs, furious at her 
husband, whom she called “ a craven coward, led by the 
nose by all who chose to lead him.” 'VYishing to shut out 
her noise, Mag closed and bolted the door, and in the 
hall the modern Xantippe expended her wrath against 
her husband and his offspring, while poor Mr. Hamilton 
laid his face in Carrie’s lap and wept. Margaret was try- 


DOMESTIC LIFE AT THE HO^IESTEAD. 69 

ing to devise some means by which to rid herself of her 
step-mother, when Lenora was heard to exclaim, “ shall I 
pitch her over the stairs, Mag ? I will if you say so.” 

Immediately Mrs. Hamilton’s anger took another chan- 
nel, and turning upon her daughter, she said, “ What are 
you here for, you prating parrot ! Didn’t you tell me 
what Aunt Polly said, and haven’t you acted in the ca- 
pacity of reporter ever since ? ” 

“ To be sure I did,” said Lenora, poising herself on one 
foot, and whirling around in circles ; “ but if you thought 
I did it because I blamed Aunt Polly, you are mistaken.” 

“ What did you do it for, then ? ” said Mrs. Hamilton ; 
and Lenora, giving the finishing touch to her circles by 
dropping upon the floor, answered, “ I like to live in a 
hurricane — so I told you what I did. Now, if you think 
it will add at all to the excitement of the present occasion, 
I’ll get an ax for you to split the door down.” 

“ Oh, don’t, Lenora,“ screamed Carrie, from within, to 
which Lenora responded, “ Poor little simple chick bird, 
I wouldn’t harm a hair of your soft head for anything. 
But there is a man in there, or one who passes for a man, 
that I think would look far more respectable if he’d come 
out and face the tornado. She’s easy to manage when 
you know how. At least, Mag and I find her so.” 

Here Mr. Hamilton, ashamed of himself and emboldened, 
perhaps, by Lenora’s words, slipped back the bolt of the 
door, and Avalkmg out, confronted his wife. 

Shall I order pistols and coffee for two ? ” asked Le- 
nora, swinging herself entirely over the bannister, and 
dropping like a squirrel on the stair below. 

“ Is Polly going to stay in this house ? ” asked Mrs. 
Hamilton. 

“ She is,” was the reply. 

“ Then I leave to-night,” said Mrs. Hamilton, 


70 


THE HOMESTEAD ON THE HILLSIDE. 


“Very well, you can go,” returned the husband, grow- 
ing stronger in himself each moment. 

Mrs. Hamilton turned away to her own room, where 
she remained until supper time, when Lenora asked “ if 
she had got her chest packed, and where they should 
direct their letters! ” Neither Margaret nor her father 
could refrain from laughter. Mrs. Hamilton, too, who 
had no notion of leaving the comfortable homestead, and 
who thought this as good a time to veer round as any 
she would have, also joined m the laugh, saying, “ What 
a child you are, Lenora ! ” 

Gradually the state of affairs at the homestead was 
noised throughout the village, and numerous were the ht- 
tle tea parties where none dared speak above a whisper, 
to tell what they had heard, and where each and every 
one were bound to the most profound secrecy, for fear 
the reports might not be true. At length, however, the 
story of the china closet got out, causing Sally Martin to 
spend one whole day in retaihng the gossip from door to 
door. Many, too, suddenly remembered certain suspi- 
cious things which they had seen in Mrs. Hamilton, who 
was unanimously voted to be a bad woman, and who, of 
course, began to be slighted. 

The result of this was, to increase the sourness of her 
disposition ; and life at the homestead would have been 
one continuous scene of turmoil, had not Margaret wisely 
concluded to treat whatever her step-mother did with si- 
lent contempt. Lenora, too, always seemed ready to fill 
up all vacant niches, until even Mag acknowledged that 
the mother would be unendurable without the daughter. 


LEKOEA AND CAEEIE. 




CHAPTER IX. 

LENOEA AND CAEEIE. 

Evee since the day on which Lenora had startled Car- 
rie by mforming her of her danger, she had been carefully 
kept from the room, or allowed only to enter it when 
Margaret was present. One afternoon, however, early in 
February, Mag had occasion to go to the village. Le- 
nora, who saw her depart, hastily gathered up her work, 
and repaired to Carrie’s room, saying, as she entered it, 
“Xow, Carrie, we’ll have a good time ; Mag has gone to 
see old deaf Peggy, who asks a thousand questions, and 
will keep her at least two hours, and I am going to enter- 
tain you to the best of my ability.” •. 

Carrie’s cheek flushed, for she felt some misgivings with 
regard to the nature of Lenora’s entertaiument ; but she 
kneAV there was no help for it, so she tried to smile, and 
said, ‘‘I am willing you should stay, Lenora, but you 
mustn’t talk bad things to me, for I can’t bear it.” 

“ Bad things ! ” repeated Lenora, “ Who ever heard 
me talk bad thmgs ? What do you mean ? ” 

“ I mean,” said Carrie, “ that you must not talk about 
your mother, as you sometimes do. It is wicked.” 

“ Why, you dear little thing,” answered Lenora, “ don’t 
you know that what would be wicked for you, isn’t wicked 
for me ? ” 

“Xo, I do not know so,” answered Carrie; “but I 
know I wouldn’t talk about my mother as you do about 
yours, for anything.” 

“ Bless your heart,” said Lenora, “ have n’t you sense 
enough to see that there is a great difierence between 
Mrs. Hamilton 1st, and Mrs. Hamilton 2d? Xow, I’m 


72 THE HOMESTEAD ON THE HILLSIDE. 

not naturally bad, and if I had been the daughter of Mrs. 
Hamilton 1st, instead of Widow Carter’s young-one, why, 
I should have been as good as you ; — no, not as good as 
you^ for you don’t know enough to be bad, — ^but as good 
as Mag, who, in my opinion, has the right kind of good- 
ness, for all I used to hate her so.” 

“ Hate Margaret ! ” said Carrie, opening her eyes to 
their utmost extent. “What did you hate Margaret 
for ? ” 

“ Because I didn’t know her, I suppose,” returned Le- 
nora ; “ for now I like her well enough — ^not quite as well 
as I do you, perhaps; and yet, when I see you bear 
mother’s abuse so meekly, I positively hate you for a min- 
ute, and ache to box your ears ; but when Mag squares 
uj) to her, shuts her in the china closet, and all that, I 
want to put my arms right round her neck.” 

“ Why, don’t you like your mother ? ” asked Carrie ; 
and Lenora replied : “ Of course I do ; but I know what 
she is, and I know she is n’t what she sometimes seems. 
Why, she’d be anything to suit the circumstances. She 
wanted your father, and she assumed the character most 
likely to secure him ; for, between you and me, he is n’t 
very smart.” 

“What did she marry him for, then? ” asked Carrie. 

“ Marry him ! I hope y(Ki don’t for a moment suppose 
she married him I ” 

“Why, Lenora, ainH they married? I thought they 
were. Oh, dreadful!” and Carrie started to her feet, 
while the perspiration stood thickly on her forehead. 

Lenora screamed with delight, saying, “ You certainly 
have the softest brain I ever saw. Of course the minister 
went through witli the ceremony ; but it was not your 
father that mother wanted ; it was his house — ^liis money 
— ^iiis horses — ^liis servants, and his name. How, may be, 


LENORA AND CARRIE. 


73 


in your simplicity, you have thought that mother .came 
here out of kindness to the motherless children ; hut I 
tell you, she would he better satisfied if neither of you 
had ever heen horn. I suppose it is wicked in me to say 
so, hut I think she makes me worse than I would other- 
wise he ; for I am not naturally so had, and I like people 
much better than I pretend to. Any way, I like you, 
and love little Willie, and always have, since the first time 
I saw him. Your mother lay in her cofiin, and Willie 
stood by her, caressing her cold cheek, and saying, 
“ Wake up, mamma, it’s Willie ; don’t you know Willie ? ” 
I took him in my arms, and vowed to love and shield him 
from the coming evil ; for I knew then, as well as I do 
now, that what has happened would happen. Mag wasn’t 
there; she didn’t see me. If he had, she might have 
liked me better; now she thinks there is no good in 
me ; and if, when you die, I should feel like shedding 
tears, and perhaps I shall, it would he just like her to 
wonder ‘what business I had to cry — it was none of my 
funeral ! ’” 

“You do wrong to talk so, Lenora,” said Carrie; 
“ hut tell me, did you never have any one to love except 
Willie ? ” 

“ Yes,” said Lenora ; “ when I was a child, a little, in- 
nocent child, I had a grandmother — my father’s mother — 
who taught me to pray, and told me of God.” 

“ Where is she now ? ” asked Carrie. 

“ In heaven,” was the answer. “ I know she is there, 
because when she died, there was the same look on her 
face that there was on your mother’s — the same that there 
will he on yours, when you are dead. ” 

“ hTever mind,” gasped Carrie, who did not care to he 
so frequently reminded of her mortality, while Lenora 
continued ; “ Perhaps you don’t know that my father was, 

b 


74 THE HOMESTEAD Olii THE HILLSIDE. 

as mother says, a bad man ; though I always loved him 
dearly, and cried when he went away. We lived with 
grandmother, and sometimes now, in my dreams, I am 
a child again, kneeling by grandma’s side, in our dear old 
eastern home, -where the sunshine fell so warmly, where 
the summer birds sang in the old maple trees, and where 
the long shadows, which I called spirits, came and went 
over the bright green meadows. But there was a sadder . 
day ; a narrow coffin, a black hearse, and a tolling bell, 
which always wakes me from my sleep, and I find the 
dream all gone, and nothing left of the little child but the 
wicked Lenora Carter.” 

Here the dark girl buried her face in her hands and 
wept, Avhile Carrie gently smoothed her tangled curls. 
After a wdiile, as if ashamed of her emotion, Lenora dried 
her tears, and Carrie said, Tell me more of your early 
life. I like you when you act as you do now.” 

“ There is nothing more to tell but wickedness,” an- 
swered Lenora. “ Grandma died, and I had no one to 
teach me what w^as right. About a year after her death, 
mother wanted to get a divorce from father; and one 
day she told me that a lawyer was coining to inquire 
about my father’s treatment of her. ‘ Perhaps,’ said she, 
‘he wdll ask if you ever saw him stiike me, and you must 
say that you have, a great many times.’ ‘ But I never 
did,’ said I ; and then she insisted upon my telling that 
falsehood, and I refused, until she whipped me, and made 
me promise to say whatever she wished me to. In this 
way I was trained to be what I am. Nobody loves me ; 
nobody ever can love me; and sometimes when Mag 
speaks so kindly to you, and looks so affectionately upon 
you, I think, what would I not give for some one to love 
me ; and then I go away to cry, and wish I had never 
been born.” 


LENORA AND CARRIE. 


15 


Here Mrs. Hamilton called to her daughter, and, gath- 
ering up her work, Lenora left the room just as Margaret 
entered it, on her return from the village. 



CHAPTER X. 


DARKNESS. 


'As the spring opened and the days grew warmer, Car- 
rie’s health seemed much improved ; and, though she did 
not leave her room, she was able to sit up nearly all day, 
busying herself with some light work. Ever hopeful, 
Margaret hugged to her bosom the delusion which whis- 
pered, “ she will not die,” while even the physician was 
deceived, and spoke encouragingly of her recovery. 

For several months Margaret had thought of visiting 
her grandmother, who lived in Albany ; and as JMr. Ham- 
ilton had occasion to visit that city, Carrie urged her to 
accompany him, saying she was perfectly able to be left 
alone, and she wished her sister would go, for the trip 
would do her good. 

For some time past, Mrs. Hamilton had seemed ex- 
ceedingly amiable and affectionate, although her husband 
appeared- greatly depressed, and acted, as Lenora said, 
“just as though he had been stealing sheep.” 

“ This depression Mag had tried in vain to ftthom, and 
at last fancying that a change of place and scene might 
do him good, she consented to accompany him, on condi- 
tion that Kate Kirby would stay with Carrie. At the 
mention of Kate’s name, Mr. Hamilton’s eyes instantly 
went over to Ins wife, whose face wore the same calm, 


76 


THE HOMESTEAD ON THE HILLSIDE. 


stony expression, as she answered, “ Yes, Maggie, Kate 
can come.” 

Accordingly, on the morning when the travelers would 
start, Kate came up to the homestead, receiving a thou- 
sand and one directions about what to do and when to 
do it, hearing not more than half the injunctions, and 
promising to comply with every one. Long before the 
door the carriage waited, while Margaret, lingering in 
Carrie’s room, kissed again and again her sister’s pure 
brow, and gazed into her deep blue eyes, as if she knew 
that it was the last time. Even when halfway down the 
stairs, she turned back again to say good-by, this time 
whispering, “ I have half a mind not to go, for something 
tells me I shall never see you again.” 

“Oh, Mag,” said Carrie, “don’t be superstitious. I 
am a great deal better, and when you come home, you 
will find me in the parlor.” 

In the lower hall Mr. Hamilton caressed his little Wil- 
lie, who begged that he, too, might go. Don’t leave me, 
Maggie, don’t,” said he, as Mag came up to say good-by. 

Long years after the golden curls which Mag pushed 
back from Willie’s forehead were covered by the dark, 
moist earth, did she remember her baby-brother’s child- 
ish farewell, and oft in bitterness of heart she asked, 
“ Why did I go — why leave my loved ones to die alone? ” 

Just a week after Mag’s departure, news was received 
at the homestead that Walter was commg to Glenwood 
for a day or two, and on the afternoon of the same day, 
Kate had occasion to go home. As she was leaving the 
house, Mrs. Hamilton detained her, while she said, “ Miss 
Kirby, we are all greatly obliged to you for your kind- 
ness in staying with Carrie, although your services really 
are not needed. I understand how matters stand be- 
tween you and Walter, and as he is to be here to-morrow, 


DAEKN^ESS. 


77 


you of course will feel some delicacy about remaining ; 
consequently, I release you from all obligations to do so.” 

Of course there was no demurring to this. Kate’s 
pride was touched ; and though Carrie wept, and begged 
her not to go, she yielded only so far as to stay until the 
next morning, when, v/itli a promise to call frequently, 
she left. Lonely and long seemed the hours to poor Car- 
rie ; for, though Walter came, he staid but two days, and 
spent a part of that time at the mill-pond cottage. 

The evening after he went away, as Carrie lay, half 
dozing, thinking of Mag, and counting the weary days 
which must pass ere her return, she was startled by the 
sound of Lenora’s voice, in the room opposite, the door 
of which was ajar. Lenora had been absent a few days, 
and Carrie was about calling to her, when some words 
spoken by her step-mother arrested her attention, and 
roused her curiosity. They were, “ You think too little 
of yourself, Lenora. Kow, I know there is nothing in 
the way of your winning Walter, if you choose.” 

“ I should say there was everything in the way,” an- 
swered Lenora. “ In the first place, there is Kate Kirby ; 
and who, after seeing her handsome face, would ever look 
at such a black, turned-up nose, bristle-headed thing as I 
am. But I perceive there is some weighty secret on your 
mind, so what is it? Have Walter and Kate quarreled, 
or have you told him some falsehood about her ? ” 

“ Keither,” said Mrs. Hamilton. “ What I have to say, 
concerns your father.” 

“My father!” interrupted Lenora; “my own father! 
Oh, is he living ? ” 

“Ko, I hope not,” was the answer; “it is Mr. Hamil- 
ton whom I mean.” 

Instantly Lenora’s tone changed, and she replied, “ If 
you please, you need not call that putty-headed man 


78 


THE HOMESTEAD ON THE HILLSIDE. 


father. He acts too much like a whipped spaniel to 
suit me, and I really think Carrie ought to be respected 
for knowing what little she does, while I wonder where 
Walter, Mag, and Willie got their good sense. But what 
is it ? What have you made Mr. Hamilton do ? some- 
thing ridiculous, of course.” ‘ ^ 

‘‘ I’ve made him make his will,” was the answer ; wliile 
Lenora continued : “ Well, what then ? What good will 
that do me ? ” 

“ It may do you a great deal of good,” said Mrs. Ham- 
ilton ; “that is, if Walter likes the homestead as I think 
he does. But I tell you, it was hard work, and I did n’t 
know, one while, but I should have to give it up. How- 
ever, I succeeded, and he has willed the homestead to 
Walter, provided he marries you. If not, Walter has no- 
thing, and the homestead comes to me and my heirs for- 
ever ! ” 

“ Heartless old fool ! ” exclaimed Lenora, while Carrie, 
too, groaned in sympathy. “ And do you suppose he in- 
tends to let it go so ! Of course not ; he’ll make an- 
other when you don’t know it.” 

“ I’ll watch him too closely for that,” said Mrs. Ham- 
ilton ; and after a moment Lenora asked, “ what made 
you so anxious for a will ? Have you received warning 
of his sudden demise ! ” 

“ How foolish,” said Mrs. Hamilton. “ Isn’t it the ear 
siest thing in the world for me to let Walter know what’s 
in the will, and I fancy that’ll bring him to terms, for he 
likes money, no mistake about that.” 

“ Mr. Hamilton is a bigger fool, and you a worse wo- 
man, than I supposed,” said Lenora.” Do you think I 
am mean enough to marry Walter under such circum- 
stances ? Indeed, I’m not. But how is Carrie ? I must 
go and see her.” 


DAEKNESS. 


79 


She was about leaving the room, when she turned back, 
saying in a whisper, “ mother, mother, her door is wide 
open, as well as this one, and she must have heard every 
word I ” . 

“ Oh, horror ! ” exclaimed Mrs. Hamilton ; “ go in and 
ascertain the fact, if possible.” 

It took but one glance to convince Lenora that Carrie 
was in possession of the secret. Her cheeks were flushed, 
her eyes wet with tears ; and when Lenora stooped to 
kiss her, she said, “ I know it all, I heard it all.” 

“Then I hope you feel better,” said Mrs. Hamilton, 
coming forward. “Listeners never hear any good of 
themselves.” 

“ Particularly if it’s Widow Carter who is listened to,” 
suggested Lenora. 

Mrs. Hamilton did not reply to this, but continued 
speaking to Carrie. “ If you have learned anything new, 
you can keep it to yourself. No one has interfered with 
you, or intends to. Your father has a right to do what 
he chooses with his own, and I shall see that he exercises 
that right, too.” 

So saying, she left the room, while Carrie, again burst- 
ing into tears, wept until perfectly exhausted. The next 
morning she was attacked with bleeding at the lungs, 
which, in a short time, reduced her so low that the phy- 
sician spoke doubtfully of her recovery, should the hem- 
orrhage again return. In the course of two or three 
days she was again attacked ; and now, when there was 
no longer hope of life, her thoughts turned with earnest 
longings toward her absent father and sister, and once, 
as the physician was preparing to leave her, she said, 
“ Doctor, tell me truly, can I live twenty-four hours ? ” 

“ I think you may,” was the answer. 

“ Then I shall see them, for if you telegraph to-night, 


80 the homestead on the hillside. 

they can come in the mornmg train. Go yourself and 
see it done, will you ? ” 

The physician promised that he would, and then left 
her room. In the hall he met Mrs. Hamilton, who, with 
the utmost anxiety dejncted upon her countenance, said, 
“Dear Carrie is leaving us, isn’t she? I have tele- 
graphed for her father, who will he here in the morning. 
’Twas right to do so, was it not ? ” 

“ Quite right,” answered the physician. “ I promised 
to see to it myself, and was just going to do so.” 

“Poor child,” returned Mrs. Hamilton, “she feels 
anxious, I suppose. But I have saved you the trouble.” 

The reader will not, perhaps, be greatly surprised to 
learn that what Mrs. Hamilton had said was false. She 
suspected that one reason why Carrie so greatly desired 
to see her father, was to tell him what she had heard, 
and beg of him to undo what he had done ; and as she 
feared the effect which the sight and words of his dying 
child might have upon hun, she resolved, if possible, to 
keep hhn away until Carrie’s voice was hushed in death. 
Overhearing what had been said by the doctor, she re- 
sorted to the stratagem of which we have just spoken. 
The next morning, however, she ordered a telegram to 
be dispatched, knowing, full well, that her husband could 
not reach home mitil the day following. 

Meantime, as the hour for the morning train drew 
near, Carrie, resting upon j^iUows, and whiter than the 
linen which covered them, strained her cars to catch the 
first sound of the locomotive. At last, far off through 
an opening among the hills, was heard a rumbling noise, 
which increased each moment in loudness, until the puff- 
ing engine shot out into the long, green valley, and then 
rolled rapidly up to the depot. 

Little Willie had seemed unwell for a few days, but 


DARKNESS. 


81 


since his sister’s illness he had staid by her almost con- 
stantly, gazing half curiously, half timidly into her face, 
and asking if she were going to the home where his 
mamma lived. She had told him that Margaret was 
coming, and when the shrill whistle of the eastern train 
sounded through the room, he ran to the window, 
whither Lenora had preceded him, and there together 
they watched for the coming of the omnibus. A sinister 
smile curled the lips of Mrs. Hamilton, who was present, 
and who, of course, affected to feel interested. 

At last Willie, clappmg his hands, exclaimed, “ There 
’tis ! They ’re coming. That’s Maggie’s big trunk ! ” 
Then, noticing the glow which his announcement called 
up to Carrie’s cheek, he said, “she’ll make you well, 
Carrie, Maggie will. Oh, I’m so glad, and so is Leno.” 

Nearer and nearer came the omnibus, brighter and 
deeper grew the flush on Carrie’s face, while little Wil- 
lie danced up and down with joy. 

“It isn’t coming here,” said Mrs. Hamilton, “it has 
gone by,” and Carrie’s feverish heat was succeeded by an 
icy chill. 

“Haven’t they come, Lenora?” she said. 

Lenora shook her head, and Willie, running to his sis- 
ter, wound his arms around her neck, and for several 
minutes the two lone, motherless children wept. 

“ If Maggie knew how my head ached, she’d come,” 
said Willie ; but Carrie thought not of her aching head, 
nor of the faintness of death which was fast coming on. 
One idea alone engrossed her. Her brother ; — how would 
he be saved from the threatened evil, and her father’s 
name from dishonor ? 

At last, Mrs. Hamilton left the room, and Carrie, 
speaking to Lenora and one of the villagers who was 
present, asked if they, too, would not leave her alone for 

6 


82 


THE HOMESTEAD ON THE HILLSIDE. 


a time with Willie. They complied with her request, 
and then asking her brother to bring her pencil and pa^ 
per, she hurriedly wrote a few lines to her father, telling 
him of what she had heard, and entreating him, for -her 
sake, and the sake of. the mother with whom she would 
be when those words met his eye, not to do Walter so 
great a wrong. “ I shall give this to Willie’s care,” she 
wrote, in conclusion, “ and he will keep it carefully until 
you come. And now, I bid you a long farewell, my pre- 
cious father, — my noble Mag, — ^my darling Walter.” 

The note was finished, and calling Willie to her, she 
said, “ I am going to die. When Maggie returns I shall 
be dead and still, lilce our own dear mother.” 

“ Oh Carrie, Carrie,” sobbed the child, “ don’t leave 
me till Maggie comes.” 

There was a footstep on the stairs, and Carrie, without 
replying to her brother, said quickly, Take this paper, 
Willie, and give it to father when he comes ; let no one 
see it, — ^Lenora, mother, nor any one.” 

Willie promised compliance, and had but just time to 
conceal the note in his bosom ere Mrs. Hamilton entered 
the room, accompanied by the physician, to -whom she 
loudly expressed her regrets that her husband had not 
come, saying, that she had that morning telegraphed 
again, although he could not now reach home until the 
morrow. 

“ To-morrow I shall never see,” said Carrie, faintly. 
And she spoke truly, too, for even then death was free- 
zing her life-blood Avith the touch of his icy hand. To the 
last she seemed conscious of the tiny arms which so fondly 
encircled her neck ; and when the soul had drifted far 
out on the dark channel of death, the childish words of 
“ Carrie, Carrie, speak once more,” roused her, and fold- 
ing her brother more closely to her bosom, she mur- 


DAEKNESS. 


83 


mured, “ Willie, darling Willie, our mother is waiting 
for us both.” 

Mrs. Hamilton, who stood near, now bent down, and 
laying her hand on the pale, damp brow, said gently, 
“Carrie, dear, have you no word of love for this 
mother?” 

There was a visible shudder, an attempt to speak, a low 
moan, in which the word “Waiter” seemed struggling 
to be spoken ; and then death, as if impatient of delay, 
bore away the spirit, leaving only the form which in life 
had been most beautiful. Softly Lenora closed over the 
blue eyes the long, fringed lids, and pushed back from the 
forehead the sunny tresses which clustered so thickly 
around it ; then, kissing the white lips and leaving on the 
face of the dead traces of her tears, she lead Willie from 
the room, soothing him in her arms until he fell asleep. 

Elsewhere we have said that for a few days Willie had 
not seemed well ; but so absorbed were all in Carrie’s 
more alarming symptoms, that no one had heeded him, 
although his cheeks were flushed with fever, and his head 
was throbbing with pain. He was in the habit of sleeping 
in his parents’ room, and that night his loud breathings 
and uneasy turnings disturbed and annoyed his mother, 
who at last called out in harsh tones, “ Willie, Willie, for 
mercy’s sake stop that horrid noise ! I shall never get 
asleep this way. I know there’s no need of breathing like 
that ! ” 

“It chokes me so,” sobbed little Willie, “but I’ll try.” 

Then pressing his hands tightly over his mouth, he 
tried the experiment of holding his breath as long as 
possible. Hearing no sound from his mother, he thought 
her asleep, but not venturing to breathe naturally until 
assured of the fact, he whispered, “ Ma, ma, are you 
asleep ? ” 


84 


THE HOMESTEAD ON THE HILLSIDE. 


“ Asleep ! no, — and never shall be, as I see ! What 
do you want ? ” 

“ Oh, I want to breathe,” said Willie. 

“ W eU, breathe then ; who hinders you ? ” was the re- 
ply ; and ere the offensive sound again greeted her ear, 
Mrs. Hamilton was too far gone in slumber to be disturbed. 

For two hours Willie lay awake, tossing from side to 
side, scorched with fever and longing for water to quench 
his burning thirst. By this time Mrs. Hamilton was 
again awake ; but to his earnest entreaties for water — 
“just one little drop of water, ma,” — she answered, 
“ William Hamilton, if you don’t be still. I’ll move your 
crib into the room where Carrie is, and leave you there 
alone ! ” 

Unlike many children, Willie had no fears of the cold, 
white figure which lay so still and motionless upon the 
parlor sofa. To him it was Carrie, his sister ; and many 
times that day, had he stolen in alone, and laying back 
the thin muslin which shaded her face, he had looked 
long upon her; — ^had laid his hand on her icy cheek, 
wondering if she knew how cold she was, and if the way 
which she had gone was so long and dark that he could 
never find it. To him there was naught to fear in that 
room of death, and to his mother’s threat he answered, 
eagerly, “ Oh, ma, give me some water, just a little bit of 
water, and you may carry me in there. I ain’t afraid, 
and my breathing wont wake Carrie up ; ” but before 
he had finished speaking, his mother was again dozing. 

“Won’t anybody bring me some water, —Maggie, 
Carrie, — Leno, — nobody?” murmured poor Willie, as 
he wet his pillow with tears. 

At last he could bear it no longer. He knew where 
the water-bucket stood, and stepping from his bed, he 
groped his way down the long stairs to the basement. 


DARKNESS. 


85 


The spring moon was low in the western horizon, and 
shining through the curtained window, dimly lighted 
up the room. The pad was soon reached, and then in his 
eagerness to drink, he put his lips to the side. Lower, 
lower, lower it came, until he discovered, alas ! that the 
pail was empty. 

“ What shall I do ? what shall I do ? ” said he, as he 
crouched upon the cold hearth-stone. 

A new idea entered his mind. The well stood near the 
outer door ; and, quickly pushing back the bolt, he went 
out, all flushed and feverish as he was, into the chill night 
air. There was ice upon the curb-stone, but he did not 
mind it, although his little toes, as they trod upon it, 
looked red by the pale moonlight. Quickly a cup of the 
coveted, water was drained ; then, with careful forethought, 
he filled it again, and taking it back to his room, crept 
shivering to bed. Nature was exhausted ; and whether 
he fainted or fell asleep is not known, for never again to 
consciousness in this world awoke the little boy. 

The morning sunlight came softly in at the window, 
touching his golden curls with a still more golden hue. 
Sadly over him Lenora bent, saying, “Willie, Willie! 
wake up, Willie. Don’t you know me?” 

Greatly Mrs. Hamilton marveled whence came the cup 
of water which stood there, as if reproaching her for her 
cruelty. But the delirious words of the dreamer soon 
told her all. “Maggie, Maggie,” he said, “rub my 
feet; they feel like Carrie’s face. The curb-stone was 
cold, but the water was so good. Give me more, more ; 
mother won’t care, for I got it myself, and tried not to 
breathe, so she could sleep; — and Carrie, too, is dead — 
dead.” 

Lenora fiercely grasped her mother’s arm, and said, 


86 


THE HOMESTEAD ON THE HILLSIDE, 


“ JLow could you refuse him. water, and sleep while he got 
it himself?” 

But Mrs. Hamilton needed not that her daughter 
should accuse her. Willie had been her favorite, and the 
tears which she dropped upon his pillow were genuine. 
The physician who was called, pronounced his disease to 
be scarlet fever, saying that its violence w^as greatly in- 
creased by a severe cold which he had taken. 

“ You have killed him, mother ; you have killed him!” 
said Lenora. 

Twenty-four hours had passed since, with straining ear, 
Carrie had listened for the morning train, and again 
down the vaUey floated the smoke of the engine, and 
over the blue hills echoed the loud scream of the locomo- 
tive ; but no sound could awaken the fair young sleeper, 
though Willie started, and throwing up his hands, one of 
which, the right one, was firmly clenched, murmured, 
“ Maggie, Maggie.” 

Ten minutes more, and Margaret was there, weeping 
in agony over the inanimate form of her sister, and al- 
most shrieking as she saw Willie’s wild eye, and heard 
his incoherent words. Terrible to Mr. Hamilton was this 
coming home. Like one who walks in sleep, he went 
from room to room, kissing the burning brow of one 
child, and then, while the hot breath was yet warm upon 
his lips, pressing them to the cold face of the other. 

All day Margaret sat by lier dying brother, praying 
that he might be spared until Walter came. Her prayer 
was answered; for at nightflill Walter was wuth them. 
Half an hour after his return, Willie died ; but ere his 
right hand dropped lifeless by his side, he held it up to 
view, saying, “ Father, — give it to nobody but father.” 

After a moment, Margaret, taking within hers the fast 


DAEKNESS. 


87 


Btiffening hand, gently unclosed the fingers, and found 
the crumpled piece of paper on which Carrie had written 
to her father. 


CHAPTER XI. 

^ MAEGAEET AND HEE FATHEE. 

’Twas midnight — midnight after the burial. In the 
library of the old homestead sat its owner, his arms rest- 
ing upon the table, and his face reclining upon his arms. 
Sadly was he reviewing the dreary past, since first among 
them death had been, bearing away his wife, the wife of 
his first, only love. How, by her grave there was an- 
other, on which the pale moonbeams and the chill night- 
dews were falling, but they could not disturb the rest of 
the two, who, side by side, in the same coffin lay sleeping, 
and for whom the father’s tears were falling fast, and the 
father’s heart was bleeding. 

“ Desolate, desolate — all is desolate,” said the stricken 
man. “Would that I, too, were asleep with my lost 
ones ! ” 

There Avas a rustling sound near him, a footfall, and an 
arm was thrown lovingly around his neck. Margaret’s 
tears were on his cheek, and Margaret’s voice whispered 
in his ear, “ Dear father, we must love each other better, 
now.” 

Margaret had not retired, and on passing through 
the hall, had discovered the light gleaming through the 
crevice of the library door. Knowing that her father 
must be there, she had come in to comfort him. Long 
the father and child wept together, and then Margaret, 


88 


THE HOMESTEAD ON THE HILLSIDE. 


drying her tears, said, “It is right — all right ; mother 
has two, and you have two ; and though the dead will 
never return to us, we, in God’s good time, vdll return to 
them ? ” 

“ Yes, soon, very soon, shall I go,” said Mr. Hamilton. 
“ I am weary, weary, Margaret ; my life is one scene of 
bitterness. Oh, why, why was I left to do it ? ” 

Margaret knew well to what he referred, but she made 
no answer ; and after he had become somewhat composed, 
thinking this a good opportunity for broaching the sub- 
ject which had so troubled Carrie’s dying moments, she 
drew from her bosom the soiled piece of paper, and pla- 
cing it in his hands, watched him while he read. The 
moan of anguish which came from his lips as he finished, 
made her repent of her act, and, springing to his side, she 
exclaimed, “Forgive me, father; I ought not to have 
done it now. You have enough to bear.” 

“ It is right, my child,” said Mr. Hamilton ; “ for after 
the wound had slightly healed, I might have wavered. 
Not that I love Walter less; but, fool that I am, I 
fear her who has made me the cowardly wretch you 
see ! ” 

“ Rouse yourself, then,” answered Margaret. “ Shake 
oflT her chain, and be free.” 

“ I cannot, I cannot,” said he. “ But this I will do. I 
will make another will. I always intended to do so, and 
Walter shall not be wronged.” Then rising, he hurriedly 
paced the room, saying, “Walter shall not be wronged; 
no, no — Walter shall not be wronged.” 

After a time he resumed his former seat, and taking his 
daughter’s hand in his, he told her of all he had suffered, 
of the power which his wife held over him, and which he 
was too weak to shake off. This last he did not say, but 
Margaret knew it, and it prevented her from giving him 


MARGARET AND HER FATHER. 


89 


Other consolation than that of assuring him of her own 
unchanged, undying love. 

The morning twilight was streaming through the closed 
shutters ere the conference ended ; and then Mr. Hamil- 
ton, kissing his daughter, dismissed her from the room ; 
but as she was leaving him, he called her back, saying, 
“Don’t tell Walter ; he would despise me ; but he shan’t 
be wronged — ^no, he shan’t be ■wronged.” 

Six weeks from that night, Margaret stood, with her 
brother, watching her father as the light from his eyes 
went out, and the tones of his voice ceased forever. 
Grief for the loss of his children, and remorse for the 
blight wdiich he had brought upon his household, had un- 
dermined liis constitution, never strong ; and when a pre- 
vailing fever settled upon him, it found an easy prey. In 
ten days’ time, Margaret and Walter alone were left of 
the happy band, who, two years before, had gathered 
around the fireside of the old homestead. 

Loudly Mrs. Hamilton deplored her loss, shutting her- 
self up in her room, and refusing to see any one, saying 
that she could not be comforted, and it was of no use try^ 
ing ! Lenora, however, managed to find an opportunity 
of whispering to her that it would hardly be advisable to 
commit suicide, since she had got the homestead left, 
and everything else for which she had married Mr. Ham- 
ilton. 

“Lenora, how can you thus trifle with my feelings? 
“ Don’t you see that my trouble is killing me ? ” said the 
greatly distressed lady. 

“ I don’t apprehend any such catastrophe as that,” an- 
swered Lenora. “You found the weeds of Widow Car- 
ter easy enough to wear, and those of Widow Hamilton 
won’t hurt you any worse, I imagine.” 

“Lenora,” groaned Mrs. Hamilton, “may you never 


90 


THE HOMESTEAD ON THE HILLSIDE. 


know what it is to be the unhappy mother of such a 
child ! ” 

“ Amen ! ” was Lenora’s fervent response, as she glided 
from the room. 

For three days the body of Mr. Hamilton lay upon the 
marble center-table in the darkened parlor. Up and 
dow the long stair-cases, and through the silent rooms, 
the servants moved noiselessly. Down in the basement 
Aunt Polly forgot her wonted skhl in cooking, and in a 
broken rocking-chair swayed to and fro, brushing the big 
tears from her dusky face, and lamenting the loss of one 
•who seemed to her “just like a brother, only a little nigher.” 

In the chamber above, where, six weeks before, Carrie 
had died, sat Margaret, — not weeping; she could not do 
that ; — her grief was too great, and the fountain of her 
tears seemed scorched and dried ; but, with white, com- 
j)ressed lips, and hands tightly clasped, she thought of 
the past and of the cheerless future. Occasionally through 
the doorway there came a small, dark figure ; a pair of 
slender arms were thrown around her neck, and a voice 
murmured in her ear, “ Poor, poor Maggie.” The next 
moment the figure would be gone, and in the haU below 
Lenora v/ould be heard singing snatches of some song, 
either to provoke her mother, or to make the astonished 
servants believe that she was really heartless and hard- 
ened. 

What Walter suffered could not be expressed. Hour 
after hour, from the sun’s rising till its going dovm, he 
sat by his father’s coffin, unmindful of the many who came 
in to look at the dead, and then gazing pitifully upon the 
face of the living, walked away, Avhispering mysteriously 
of insanity. Hear hhn Lenora dared not come, though 
through the open door she watched him, and oftentimes 
he met the glance of her wild, black eyes, fixed upon him 


MAEGAKET AND HEE FATHEE. 


91 


with a mournful interest ; then, as if moved by some spirit 
of evil, she vrould turn away, and seeking her mother’s 
room, would mock at that lady’s grief, advising her not 
to make too much of an effort. 

At last there came a change. In the yard there was 
the sound of many feet, and in the house the hum of many 
voices, all low and subdued. Again in the village of Glen- 
wood was heard the sound of the tolling bell ; again through 
the garden and over the running water brook moved the 
long procession to the grave-yard; and soon Ernest 
Hamilton lay quietly sleeping by the side of his wife and 
children. 

For some time after the funeral, nothing was said con- 
cerning the wiU, and Margaret had almost forgotten the 
existence of one, when one day as she was passing the 
library door, her mother appeared, and asked her to enter. 
She did so, and found there her brother, whose face, be- 
sides the marks of recent sorrow which it wore, now 
seemed anxious and expectant. 

“ Maggie, dear,” said the oily-tongued woman, “ I have 
sent for you to hear read your beloved father’s last will 
and testament.” 

A deep Hush mounted to Margaret’s face, as she re- 
peated, somewhat inquiringly, “Father’s last will and 
testament ? ” 

“Yes, dear,” answered her mother, “his last will and 
testament. He made it several weeks ago, even before 
poor Carrie died ; and as Walter is now the eldest and 
only son, I think it quite proper that he should read it.” 

So saying, she passed toward Walter a sealed package, 
wdiich he nervously opened, while Margaret, going to his 
side, looked over his shoulder, as he read. 

It is impossible to describe the look of mingled sur- 
prise, anger, and mortification w^hich 3Irs. Hamilton’s 


92 


THE HOMESTEAD ON THE HILLSIDE. 


face assumed, as she heard the will which her husband 
had made four weeks before his death, and in which Wal- 
ter shared equally with his sister. Her first impulse was 
to destroy it ; and springing forward, she attempted to 
snatch it from Walter’s hand, but was prevented by Mar- 
garet, who caught her arm and forcibly held her back. 

Angrily confronting her step-daughter, Mrs. Hamilton 
demanded, “ What does this mean ? ” to which Mag re- 
plied, “ It means, madam, that for once you are foiled. 
You coaxed my father into making a will, the thought of 
which ought to make you blush. Carrie overheard you 
telling Lenora, and when she found that she must die, she 
wrote it on a piece of paper, and consigned it to Willie’s 
care ! ” 

Several times Mrs. Hamilton essayed to speak, but the 
words died away in her throat, until, at last, summoning 
all her boldness, she said, in a hoarse whisper, “ But the 
homestead is mine — mine forever, and we’ll see how de- 
lightful I can make your home ! ” 

“I’ll save you that trouble, madam,” said Walter, ri- 
sing and advancing toward the door. “Neither my sis- 
ter nor myself will remain beneath the same roof which 
shelters you. To-morrow we leave, knovung well that 
vengeance belongeth to One higher than we.” 

Ail the remainder of that day Walter and Margaret 
spent in devising some plan for the future, deciding at last 
that Margaret should, on the morrow, go for a time to 
Mrs. Kirby’s, while Walter returned to the city. The 
next morning, however, Walter did not appear in the 
breakfast parlor, and when Margaret, alarmed at his ab- 
sence, repaired to his room, she found him unable to rise. 
The fever with which his father had died, and which was 
still prevailing in the village, had fastened upon him, and 
for many days was his life despamed of. The ablest phy- 


MARGARET AND HER FATHER. 


93 


sicians were called, but few of them gave any hope to the 
pale, weeping sister, who, with untiring love, kept her 
vigils by her brother’s bedside. 

When he was first taken ill, he had manifested great 
uneasiness at his step-mother’s presence, and when at last 
he became delirious, he no longer concealed his feelings, 
and if she entered the room, he would shriek, “ Take her 
away from me ! Take her away ! Chain her in the cel- 
lar ; — anywhere out of my sight.” 

Agam he would speak of Kate, and entreat that she 
might come to him. “ I have nothing left but her and 
Margaret,” he would say ; “ and why does she stay away ? ” 

Three different times had Margaret sent to her young 
friend, urgmg her to come, and still she tarried, while 
Margaret marveled greatly at the delay. She did not 
know that the girl whom she had told to go, liad received 
different directions from Mrs. Hamilton, and that each 
day beneath her mother’s roof Kate Kirby wept and 
prayed that Walter might not die. 

One night he seemed to be dying, and gathered in the 
room were many sympathizing friends and neighbors. 
Without, ’twas pitchy dark. The rain fell in torrents, 
and the wind, which had increased in violence since the 
setting of the sun, howled mournfully about the windows, 
as if waiting to bear the soul company in its upward 
flight. Many times had Walter attempted to speak. At 
last he succeeded, and the word which fell from liis lips, 
was “ Kate ! ” 

Lenora, who had that day accidentally learned of her 
mother’s commands with regard to Miss Kirby, now 
glided noiselessly from the room, and in a moment was 
alone in the fearful storm, which she did not heed. Lightly 
bounding over the swollen brook, she ran on until the 
mill-pond cottage was reached. It was midnight, and its 


94 


THE HOMESTEAD ON THE HILLSIDE. 


inmates '^ere asleep, but they avroke at the sound of Le- 
nora’s voice. 

Walter is dying,” said she to Kate, “and would see 
you once more. Come quickly.” 

Hastily dressing herself, Kate went forth with the 
strange girl' Vv^ho spoke not a word until Walter’s room 
W’as reached. F eebly the sick man wound his arms around 
Kate’s neck, exclaiming, “ My owm, my beautiful Kate, 
I knew you would come. I am better now, — I shall live ! ” 
and as if there was indeed something life-giving in her 
very presence and the sound of her voice, Walter from 
that hour grew better ; and in three week’s time he, to- 
gether with Margaret, left his childhood’s home, once 
so dear, but now darkened by the presence of her who 
watched their departure with joy, exulting in the thought 
that she was mistress of all she surveyed. 

Y»^alter, who was studying law in the city about twenty 
miles distant, resolved to return thither immediately, and 
after some consultation with his sister it was determined 
that both she and Kate should accompany him. Accord- 
ingly, a few mornings after they left the homestead, there 
was a quiet bridal at the mill-pond cottage ; after which, 
Walter Hamilton bore away to his city home his sister 
and his bride, the beautiful Kate. 


CHAPTER XII. 

“carrying out dear MR. HAMILTON’S PLANS.” 

One morning about ten days after the departure of 
Walter, the good people of Glenwood were greatly sur- 
prised at the imusual confusion which seemed to pervade 


CAKRYIXa OUT DEAR ME. HAMILTON’S PLANS.” 


95 


(( 


the homestead. The blinds were taken off, windows taken 
out, carpets taken up, and where so lately physicians, 
clergymen and death had officiated, were now seen car- 
penters, masons and other workmen. Many were the 
surmises as to the cause of all this ; and one old lady, more 
curious than the rest, determined upon a friendly call, to 
ascertain, if possible, what was gouig on. 

She found Mrs. Hamilton with her sleeves rolled up, 
and her hair tucked under a black cap, consulting with a 
carpenter about enlarging her bedroom and adding to it 
a bathing room. Being received but coldly by the mis- 
tress of the house, she descended to the basement, where 
she was told by Aunt Polly that “ the blinds were going 
to be repainted, an addition built, the house turned wrong 
side out, and Cain raised generally.” 

“ It’s a burnmg shame,” said Aunt Polly, warmed up 
by her subject and the hot oven into which she was thrust- 
ing loaves of bread and pies. “ It’s a burning shame, — a 
tearin’ down and a goin’ on this way, and marster not 
cold in his grave. Miss Lenora, with all her badness, says 
it’s disgraceful, but he might ha’ know’d it. I did. I 
know’d it the fust time she came here a nussin’. I don’t 
see what got ipto him to have her. Polly Pepper, Avith- 
nul} aiiy lamin’, never would ha’ done such a thing,” con- 
tinued she, as the door closed upon her visitor, avLo was 
anxious to carry the gossip back to the village. 

It was even as Aunt Polly had said. Mrs. Hamilton, who 
possessed a strong propensity for pulling down and build- 
ing up, and Avho would have made an excellent carpenter, 
had long had an earnest desire for improving the home- 
stead ; and now that there was no one to prevent her, she 
went to work with a right good will, saying to Lenora, 
who remonstrated Avith her upon the impropriety of her 
conduct, that “ she was merely carrying out dear Mr. 


96 


THE HOMESTEAD ON THE HILLSIDE. 


Hamilton’s plans,” who had proposed making these chan- 
ges before his death. 

“ Dear Mr. Hamilton ! ” repeated Lenora, “ very dear 
has he become to you, all at once. I think if you had al- 
ways manifested a little more affection for him and his, 
they might not have been where they now are.” 

“ Seems to me you take a different text from what you 
did some months ago,” said Mrs. Hamilton ; “ but per- 
haps you don’t remember the time ? ” 

“ I remember it well,” answered Lenora, “ and quite 
likely, with your training, I should do the same again. 
We were poor, and I wished for a more elegant home. I 
fancied that Margaret Hamilton was proud and had slight- 
ed me, and I longed for revenge ; but when I knew her, 
I liked her better, and when I saw that she was not to be 
trampled down by you or me, my hatred of her turned to 
admiration. The silly man, who has paid the penalty of 
his weakness, I always despised ; but when I saw how fast 
the gray hairs thickened on his head, and how care-worn 
and bowed down he grew, I pitied him, for I knew that 
his heart was breaking. Willie I truly, unselfishly loved ; 
and I am charitable enough to think that even you loved 
A/m, but it was through your neglect that he died, and 
for his death you will answer. Carrie was gentle and 
trusting, but weak, like her father. I do not think you 
killed her, for she was dying when we came here, but you 
put the crowning act of wickedness to your life, when you 
compelled a man, shattered in body and intellect, to write 
a will which disinherited his only son ; but on that point 
you are baffled. To be sure, you’ve got the homestead, 
and for decency’s sake I think I’d wait awhile longer, ere 
I commenced tearing down and building up.” 

Lenora’s words had no effect, whatever, upon her mother, 
who still kept on with her plans, treating with silent con- 


“CAERYING OUT DEAR MR. HAMILTON’S PLANS.” 97 

tempt the remarks of the neighbors, or wishing, perhaps, 
that they would attend to their own business, just as she 
was attending to hers ! Day after day the work went on. 
Scaffoldings were raised — paper and plastering torn off — 
boards were seasoning in the sun — shingles lying upon 
the ground — ladders raided against the wall ; and all this 
while the two new graves showed not a single blade of 
grass, and the earth upon them looked black and fresh as 
it did when first it was placed there. 

When, at last, the blinds were hung, the house cleaned, 
and the carpets nailed down, Mrs. Hamilton, who had de- 
signed doing it all the time, called together the servants, 
whom she had always dishked on account of their prefer- 
ence for Margaret, and told them to look for new places, 
as their services were no longer needed there. 

“ You can make out your bills,” said she, at the same 
time intimating that they hadn’t one of them more than 
earned their board, if indeed they had that ! Polly Pep- 
per wasn’t of a material to stand coolly by and hear such 
language from one whom she considered far beneath her. 
“ Hadn’t she as good a right there as anybody ? Yes, in- 
deed, she had ! Wasn’t §he there a full thirty year before 
any of your low-lived trash came round a nussin ? ” 

‘‘ Polly,” interposed Mrs. Hamilton, “ leave the room, 
instantly, you ungrateful thing’ ! ” 

“ Ungrateful for w'hat ? ” returned old Polly. “ Have n’t 
I worked and slaved like an old nigger, as I am ? and now 
you call me ungrateful, and say I hain’t half arnt my bread. 
I’ll sue you for slander, yes I will and the enraged Polly 
left the room, muttering to herself, “ half arnt my board I 
Indeed ! I’ll bet I’ve made a hundred thousan’ pies, to 
say nothin’ of the puddings. I not arn my board ! ” 
When ^once again safe in what for many years had 
been her own peculiar province, she sat down to meditate. 
E ^ 


98 


THE HOMESTEAD ON THE HELLSEDE. 


I’d as good go T\dtliout any fuss,” thought she, “ hut 
my curse on the madam who sends me away ! ” 

In the midst of her reverie, Lenora entered the kitchen, 
and to her the old lady detailed her grievances, ending 
Tvith, “ ’Pears like she don’t know nothin’ at all about 
etiquette, nor nothin’ else.” 

“ Etiquette ! ” repeated Lenora. “ You are mistaken, 
Polly ; mother would sit on a point of etiquette till she 
wore the back breadth of her dress out. But it isn’t that 
which she lacks — it’s decency. But, Polly,” said she, 
changing the subject, “where do you intend to go, and 
how ? ” 

“ To my brother Sam’s,” said Polly. “ He lives three 
miles in the country, and I’ve sent Robin to the village for 
a horse and wagon to carry my things.” 

Here Mrs. Hamilton entered the kitchen, followed by a 
strapping Irish girl, nearly six feet in height. Her hair, 
flaming red, was twisted round a huge back comb ; her 
faded calico dress came far above her ancles ; her brawny 
arms were folded one over the other ; and there was in 
her appearance something altogether disagreeable and de- 
fiant. Mrs. Hamilton introduced her as Ruth, her new 
cook, saying she hoped she would know enough to keep 
her place better than her predecessor had done. 

Aunt Polly surveyed her rival from head to foot, and 
then glancing aside to Lenora, muttered, “ Low-lived, de- 
pend on’t.” 

Robin now drove up with the wagon, and Mrs. Ham- 
ilton and Lenora left the room, while Polly went to pre- 
pare herself for her ride. Her sleeping apartment was in 
the basement and communicated with the kitchen. This 
was observed by the new cook, who had a strong dislike 
of negroes, and who feared that she might be expected to 
occupy the same bed. 


“ CARRYING OUT DEAR MR. HAMILTON’S PLANS.” 99 

“ An’ faith,” said she, “ is it where the like of ye have 
burrowed that I am to turn in ? ” 

“ I don’t understand no such low-flung stuff,” answered 
Polly, “ but if you mean are you to have this bedroom, I 
suppose you are.” 

Here Polly had occasion to go up stairs for something, 
and on her return, she* found that Ruth, durmg her ab- 
sence, had set fire to a large Hnen rag, which she held on 
a shovel and was carrying about the bedroom, as if to 
purify it from every atom of negro atmosphere which 
might remain. Polly was quick-wittted, and instantly 
comprehending the truth, she struck the shovel from the 
hands of Ruth, exclaiming, “ You spalpeen, is it because 
my skin ain’t a dingy yaller and all freckled like yourn ? 
Lo‘rd, look at your carrot-topped cocoanut, and then tell 
me if wool ain’t a heap the most genteel.” 

In a moment a portion of the boasted wool was lying 
on the floor, or being shaken from the thick, red fingers 
of the cook, while Irish blood was flowing freely from 
the nose, which Polly, in her vengeful wrath, had wrung. 
Further hostilities were prevented by Robin, who screamed 
that he couldn’t wait any longer, and shaking her fist 
fiercely at the red-head, Polly departed. 

That day Lucy and Rachel also left, and their places 
were supplied by two raw hands, one of whom, before the 
close of the' second day, tumbled up stairs with the large 
soup tureen, breaking it in fragments and scalding tlie foot 
of Mrs. Hamilton, who was in the rear, and who, having 
W'aited an hour for dinner, had descended to the kitchen 
to know why it was not forthcoming, saying that Polly 
had never been so behind the time. 

The other one, on being asked if she understood cham- 
ber work, had replied, “ Indade, and it’s been my busi- 
ness all my life.” She was accordingly sent to make the 

L.JC. . 


100 


THE HOMESTEAD ON THE HILLSIDE. 


beds and empty the slop. Thinking it an easy way to dis- 
pose of the latter, she had thro'v\Ti it from the window, 
delus^ino* the head and shoulders of her mistress, who was 
bending down to examine a rose-bush which had been re- 
cently set out. Lenora was in ecstasies, and when at 
noon her mother received a sprinkling of red-hot soup, she 
gravely asked her “ which she relished most, cold or warm 
baths ! ” 


CHAPTER Xm. 

RETRIBUTION. 

Two years have passsed away, and again we open the 
scene at the homestead, which had not proved an alto- 
gether pleasant home to Mrs. Hamilton. There was 
around her everything to make her happy, but she was 
far from being so. One by one her servants, with whom 
she was very unpopular, had left her, until there now re- 
mained but one. The villagers, too, shunned her, and she 
was wholly dependent for society upon Lenora, who, as 
usual, provoked and tormented her. 

One day, Hester, the servant, came up from the base- 
ment, saying there was a poor old man below, who asked 
for money. 

“Send him away; I’ve nothing for him,” said Mrs. 
Hamilton, whose avaricious hand, larger far than her 
heart, grasped at and retained everything. 

“ But, if you please, ma’am, he seems very poor,” said 
Hester. 

“ Let him go to work, then. ’Twon’t hurt him more 
• than ’t will me,” was the reply. 


RETRIBUTION. 


101 


Lenora, whose eyes and ears were always open, no 
sooner heard that there was a beggar in the kitchen, tlian 
she ran down to see him. He was a miserable looking 
object, and still there was something in his appearance 
wdiich denoted him to be above the common order of beg- 
gars. His eyes were large and intensely black, and his 
hair, short, thick, and curly, reminded Lenora of her own. 
The moment she appeared, a peculiar expression passed 
for a moment over his face, and he half started up ; then 
resuming his seat, he fixed his glittering eyes upon the 
young lady, and seemed watching her closely. 

At last she began questioning him, but his answers were 
so unsatisfactory that she gave it up, and, thinking it the 
easiest way to be rid of him, she took from her pocket a 
shilling and handed it to him, saying, “ It’s all I can give 
you, unless it is a dinner. Are you hungry ? ” 

Hester, who had returned to the kitchen, was busy in 
a distant part of the room, and she did not notice the 
paleness which overspread Lenora’s face, at the words 
which the beggar uttered, when she presented the money 
to him. She caught, however, the low murmur of their 
voices, as they spoke together for a moment, and as Le- 
nora accompanied him to the door, she distinctly heard 
the words, “ In the garden.” 

“ And may be that’s some of your kin ; you look like 
him,” said she to Lenora, after the stranger was gone. 

“ That’s my business, not yours,” answered Lenora, as 
she left the kitchen and repaired to her mother’s room. 

“ Lenora, what ails you ? ” said Mrs Hamilton to her 
daughter at the tea-table, that night, when, after putting 
salt in one cup of tea, and upsetting a second, she com- 
menced spreading her biscuit with cheese mstead of but- 
ter. “ What ails you ? What are you thmking about ? 


102 


THE HOMESTEAD ON THE HILLSIDE. 


You don’t seem to know any more what you are doing, 
than the dead.” 

Lenora made no direct reply to this, hut soon after she 
said, “ Mother, how long has father been dead, — my own 
father I mean ? ” 

“ Two or three years, I don’t exactly know which,” 
returned her mother, and Lenora continued : “ How did 
he look ? I hardly remember him.” 

“ You have asked me that fifty times,” answered her 
mother, “ and fifty times I have told you that he looked 
like you, only worse, if possible.” 

“ Let me see, w^here did you say he died ? ” said 
Lenora. 

“In Hew Orleans, with yellow fever, or black measles, 
or small pox, or something,” Mrs. Hamilton replied; “but, 
mercy’s sake ! can’t you choose a better subject to talk 
about ? What made you think of him ? He’s been haunt- 
ing me all day, and I feel kind of nervous and want to 
look over my shoulder whenever I am alone.” 

Lenora made no further remark until after tea, when 
she announced her intention of going to the village. 

“ Come back early, for I don’t feel like staying alone,” 
said her mother. 

The sun had set when Lenora left the village, and by 
the time she reached home, it was wholly dark. As she 
entered the garden, the outline of a figure, sitting on a 
bench at its farther extremity, made her stop for a mo- 
ment, but thinking to herself, “ I expected it, and why 
should I be afraid?” she walked on fearlessly, until the 
person, roused by the sound of her footsteps, started up, 
and turning toward her, said, half aloud, “ Lenora, is it 
you ? ” 

Quickly she sprang forward, and soon one hand of the 
beggar was clasped in hers, while the other rested upon 




EETRIBUTION. 


103 


her head, as he said, “ Lenora, my child, my daughter, 
you do not hate me ? ” 

“ Hate you, father ? ” she answered, “ never, never.” 

“But,” he continued, “has not she, — my, no, not 

my wife, — thank heaven not my wife now, — but your 
mother, has not she taught you to despise and hate me ? ” 

“ No,” answered Lenora, bitterly. “ She has taught me 
enough of evil, but my memories of you were too sweet, 
too pleasant, for me to despise you, though I do not think 
you always did right, more than mother.” 

The stranger groaned, and murmured, “ It’s true, all 
true ; ” while Lenora continued ; “ But where have you 
been all these years, and how came we to hear of your 
death ? ” 

“ I have been in St. Louis most of the time, and the 
report of my death resulted from the fact that a man bear- 
ing my name, and who was also from Connecticut, died 
of yellow fcTer in New Orleans about two years and a 
half ago. A friend of mine, observing a notice of his 
death, and supposing it to refer to me, forwarded the pa- 
per to your mother, who, though then free from me, un- 
doubtedly felt glad, for she never loved me, but married 
me because she thought I had money.” 

“ But how have you lived ? ” asked Lenora. 

“ Lived ! ” he repeated, “ I have not lived. I have 
merely existed. Gambling and drinking, drinking and 
gambling, have been the business of my life, and have re- 
duced me to the miserable wretch whom you see.” 

“ Oh, father, father,” cried Lenora, “ reform. It is not 
too late, and you can yet be saved. Do it for my sake, 
for, in spite of all your faults, I love you, and you are my 
father.” 

The first words of affection which had greeted his ear 
for many long years made the wretched man weep, as 


104 THE HOMESTEAD ON THE HILLSIDE. 

he answered, “Lenora^ I have sworn to reform, and I 
will keep my vow. During one of my drunken revels in 
St. Louis, a dream of home came over me, and when I 
became sober, I started for Connecticut. There I heard 
where and what your mother was. I had no msh ever 
to meet her again, for though I greatly erred in my con- 
duct toward her, I think she was always the most to 
blame. You I remembered with love, and I longed to 
see you once more, to hear again the word ‘father,’ and 
know that I was not forgotten. I came as far as the city, 
and there fell into temptation. For the last two months 
I have been there, gambling and drinking, until I lost all, 
even the clothes which I wore, and was compelled to as- 
sume these rags. I am now without home or money, and 
have no place to lay my head.” 

“I can give you money,” said Lenora. “Meet me 
here to-morrow night, and you shall have all you want. 
But what do you purpose doing ? Where will you 
stay ? ” 

In the village, for the sake of being near you,” said 
he, at the same time bidding his daughter return to the 
house, as the night air was damp and chilly. 

Within a week from that time, a middle-aged man, 
calling himself John Robinson, appeared in the village, 
hiring himself out as a porter at one of the hotels. There 
was a very striking resemblance between him and Lenora 
Carter, which was noticed by the villagers, and men- 
tioned to Mrs. Hamilton, who, however, could never 
obtain a full view of the stranger’s face, for without 
any apparent design, he always avoided meeting her. 
He had not been long in town, before it was whispered 
about that between him and Lenora Carter a strange 
intimacy existed, and rumors soon reached Mrs. Ham- 
ilton that her daughter was in the habit of frequently 


EETRIBITTIOIT. 


105 


stealing out, after sunset, to meet the ola porter, and that 
once, when watched, she had been seen to put her arms 
around his neck. Highly indignant, Mrs. Hamilton ques- 
tioned Lenora on the subject, and was astonished beyond 
measure when she replied, “ It is all true. I have met 
Mr. Robinson often, and I have put my arms around his 
neck, and shall probably do it again.” 

“Oh, my child, my child,” groaned Mrs. Hamilton, 
really distressed at her daughter’s conduct. “ How can 
you do so ? You will bring my gray hairs with sorrow 
to the grave.” 

“ iTot if you pull out as many of them as you now do, 
and use Twiggs’ Preparation besides,” said Lenora. 

Mrs. Hamilton did not answer, but covering her face 
with her hands, wept, really ^wept, thinking for the first 
time, perhaps, that as she had sowed so was she reaping. 
For some time past, her health had been failing, and as 
the summer days grew warmer and more oppressive, she 
felt a degree of lassitude and physical weakness which she 
had never before experienced; and one day unable 
longer to sit up, she took her bed, where she lay for many 
days. 

How that her mother was really sick, Lenora seemed 
suddenly changed, and with unwearied care watched over 
her as kindly and faithfully as if no words, save those of 
affection, had ever passed between them. Warmer and 
more sultry grew the days, and more fiercely raged the 
fever in Mrs. Hamilton’s veins, until at last the crisis was 
reached and passed, and she was in a fair way for recov- 
ery, when she was attacked by chills, which again re- 
duced her to a state of helplessness. One day, about this 
time, a ragged little boy, whose business seemed to be 
lounging around the hotel, brought to Lenora a soiled 
and crumpled note, on which was traced with an unsteady 
E* 


108 


THE HOMESTEAD OIT THE HILLSIDE. 


hand, “ Dear Lenora, I am sick, all alone in the little at- 
tic ; come to me, quick ; come.” 

Lenora was in a state of great perplexity. Her mother, 
when awake, needed all her care ; and as she seldom slept 
during the day, there seemed but little chance of getting 
away. The night before, however, she had been unu- 
sually restless and wakeful, and about noon she seemed 
drowsy, and finally fell into a deep sleep. 

“How is my time,” thought Lenora; and calling Hes- 
ter, she bade her watch by her mother until she returned, 
saying, “ If she wakes, tell her I have gone to the village, 
and will soon be back.” 

Hester promised compliance, and was for a time faith- 
ful to her trust; but> suddenly recollecting something 
which she wished to tell the girl who lived at the next 
neighbor’s, she stole away, leaving her mirtress alone. 
For five minutes Mrs. Hamilton slept on, and then with a 
start awoke from a troubled dream, in which she had 
seemed dying of thirst, while little Willie, standing by a 
hogshead of water, refused her a drop. A part of her 
dream was true, for she was suffering from the most in- 
tolerable thirst, and called loudly for Lenora; but Le- 
nora was not there. Hester next was called, but she, too, 
was gone. Then, seizing the bell which stood upon the 
table, she rung it with all her force, and still there came 
no one to her relief. 

Again Willie stood by her, offering her a goblet over- 
flovfing wfith water; but when, she attempted to take it, 
Willie changed into Lenora, who laughed mockingly at 
her distress, telling her there was water in the well and 
ice on the curb-stone. Once more the phantom faded 
away, and the old porter was there, wading through a 
limpid stream, and offering her to drink a cup of molten 
lead. 


EETEIBUTION. 


107 


“ Merciful heaven ! ” shrieked the sick woman, as she 
writhed from side to side on her bed, which seemed 
changed to burning* coals ; “ v/ill no one bring me water, 
water, water ! ” 

An interval of calmness succeeded, during which she 
revolved in her mind the possibility of going herself to 
the kitchen, where she Imew the water-pail was standing. 
No sooner had she decided upon this, than the room ap- 
peared full of little demons, who laughed, and chattered, 
and shouted in her ears, “ Go — do it ! Willie did, when 
the night was dark and chilly ; but now it is warm — ^nice 
and warm — try it, do ! ” 

Tremblingly Mrs. Hamilton stepped upon the floor, 
and finding herself too weak to walk, crouched down, 
and crept slowly down the stairs to the kitchen door, 
where she flopped to rest. Across the room by the win- 
dow stood the pail, and as her eye fell upon it, the mirth 
of the little winged demons appeared, in her disordered 
fancy, to increase ; and when the spot was reached, the 
tumbler seized and thrust into the pail, they darted hither 
and thither, shouting gleefully, “Lower, lower down; 
just as Willie did. You’ll find it ; oh, you’ll find it ! ” 

With a bitter cry, Mrs. Hamilton dashed the tumbler 
upon the floor, for the bucket was empty ! 

“ Willie, Willie, you are avenged,” she said ; but the 
goblins answered, “Not yet; no, not yet.” 

There was no pump in the well, and Mrs. Hamilton 
knew she had not strength to raise the bucket by means 
of the windlass. Her exertions had increased her thirst 
tenfold, and now, for one cup of cooling water she would 
have given all her possessions. Across the yard, at the 
distance of twenty rods, there was a gushing spring, and 
thitker in her despair she determined to go. According- 
ly, she went forth into the fierce noontide blaze, and, with 


108 


THE HOMESTEAD ON THE HILLSIDE. 


almost superhuman efforts, crawled to the place. But 
what ! was it a film upon her eyes ? Had blindness come 
upon her, or was the spring really dried up by the fervid 
summer heat? 

“ Willie’s avenged ! Willie’s avenged ! ” yelled the 
imps, as the wretched woman fainted and fell backward 
upon the bank, where she lay with her white, thin face 
upturned, and blistering beneath the August sun ! 

Along the dusty highway came a handsome traveling 
carriage, in which, besides the driver, were seated two 
individuals, the one a young and elegantly dressed lady, 
and the other a gentleman, wdio appeared to be on the 
most intimate terms with his companion ; for whenever 
he would direct her attention to any passing object, he 
laid his hand on hers, frequently retaining it, and calling 
her “Maggie.” 

The carriage was nearly opposite the homestead, when 
the lady exclaimed, “ Oh, Richard, I must stop at my old 
home, once more. Only see how beautiful it is looking ! ” 

In a moment the carriage was standing before the gate, 
and the gentleman, who was Margaret Hamilton’s hus- 
band — a Mr. Elwyn, from the city — assisted his young 
wife to alight, and then followed her to the house. I^o 
answer was given to their loud ring, and as the doors and 
wmdows were all open, Margaret proposed that they 
should enter. They did so ; and, going first into Mrs. 
Hamilton’s sick-room, the sight of the little table full of 
vials, and the tumbled, empty bed, excited their wonder 
and curiosity, and induced them to go on. At last, de- 
scending to the kitchen, they saw the fragments of the 
tumbler lying upon the floor. 


EETEIBUTION. 


109 


“ Strange, isn’t it ? ” said Margaret to her husband, who 
was standing in the outer door, and w^ho had at that mo- 
ment discovered Mrs. Hamilton lying near the spring. 

Instantly they were at her side, and Margaret involun- 
tarily shuddered as she recognized her step-mother, and 
guessed why she was there. Taking her in his arms, Mr. 
Elwyn bore her back to the house, and Margaret, filling 
a pitcher with water, bathed her face, moistened her lips, 
and applied other restoratives, until she revived enough 
to say, “ More water, Willie. Give me more water ! ” 

Eagerly she drained the goblet which Margaret held to 
her lips, and was about drinking the second, wdien her 
eyes for the first time sought Margaret’s face. With a 
cry between a groan and a scream, she lay back upon her 
pillows, saying, “Margaret Hamilton, how came you 
here ? What have you to do with me, and why do you 
give me water ? Didn’t I refuse it to Willie, when he 
begged so earnestly for it in the night time ? But I ’ve 
been paid — a thousand times paid — left by my own child 
to die alone ! ” 

Margaret was about asking for Lenora, when the young 
lady herself appeared. She seemed for a moment greatly 
surprised at the sight of Margaret, and then bounding to 
her side, greeted her with much affection ; while JMrs. 
Hamilton jealously looked on, muttering to herself, 
“Loves everybody better than she does me, her own 
mother who has done so much for her.” 

Lenora made no reply to this, although she manifested 
much concern when Margaret told her in what state they 
had found her mother. 

“ I went for a few moments to visit a sick friend,” said 
she, “ but told Hester to stay with mother until I re- 
turned; and I wonder much that she should leave 
her.” 


110 THE HOMESTEAD ON THE HILLSIDE. 

“ Lenora,” said Mrs. Hamilton, “ Lenora, was that sick 
friend the old porter ? ” 

Lenora answered in the affirmative; and then her 
mother, turning to Margaret, said, “ You don’t know 
what a pest and torment this child has always been to 
me, and now when I am dying, she deserts me for a low- 
lived fellow, old enough to be her father.” 

Lenora’s eyes flashed scornfully upon her mother, but 
she made no answer, and as Mr. Elwyn was in haste to 
proceed on his journey, Margaret arose to go. Lenora 
urged them to remain longer, but they declmed ; and as 
she accom23anied them to the door, Margaret said, “ Le- 
nora, if your mother should die, and it would aCbrd you 
any satisfaction to have me come, I will do so, for I sup- 
pose you have no near friends.” 

Lenora hesitated a moment, and then whispering to 
Margaret of the relationship existing between herself and 
the old porter, she said, “ He is sick and poor, but he is 
my own father, and I love him dearly.” 

The tears came to Margaret’s eyes, for she thought of 
her own father, called home while his bro’vvn hair was 
scarcely touched with the frosts of time. Wistfully Le- 
nora watched the carriage as it disappeared ffiom sight, 
and then half reluctantly entered the sick-room, wffiere, 
for the remainder of the afternoon, she endured her 
mother’s reproaches for havmg left her alone, and where 
once, when her patience was wholly exhausted^’ she said, 
“ It served you right, for now you know how little Willie 
felt.” 

The next day Mrs. Hamilton was much worse, and Le- 
nora, who had watched.,and who understood her symp- 
toms, felt confident that she would die, and loudly her 
conscience upbraided her for her undutiful conduct. She 
longed, too, to tell her that her father was still living ; 


KETEIBTJTION. 


Ill 


and one evening, wlien, for an hour or two, her mother 
seemed better, she arose, and bending over her pillow, 
said, “ Mother, did it ever occim to you that father might 
not be dead ? ” 

“ Not be dead, Lenora! What do you mean? ” asked 
Mrs. Hamilton, starting up from her pillow. 

Cautiously then Lenora commenced her story by re- 
ferring her mother back to the old beggar, who some 
months before had been in the kitchen. Then she spoke 
of the old porter, and the resemblance which was said to 
exist between him and herself ; and finally, as she saw her 
mother could bear it, she told the whole story of her fa- 
ther’s life. Slowly the sick woman’s eyes closed, and Le- 
nora saw that her eyelids were wet with tears, but as 
she made no reply, Lenora, ere long, whispered, “Would 
you like to see him, mother ? ” 

“ No, no ; not now,” was the answer. 

For a time there was silence, and then Lenora, again 
speaking, said, “ Mother, I have often been very wicked 
and disrespectful to you, and if you should die, I should 
feel much happier knowing that you forgave me. Will 
you do it, mother, say ? ” 

Mrs. Hamilton comprehended only the words, “ if you 
should die,” so she said, “ Die, die ! who says that I must 
die ? I shan’t — I can’t ; for what could I tell her about 
her children, and how could I live endless ages without 
water. I tried it once, and I can’t do it. No, I can’t. I 
won’t ! ” 

In this way she talked all night ; and though in the 
morning she was more rational, she turned away from the 
clergyman, who at Lenora’s request had been sent for, 
saying, “ It ’s of no use, no use ; I know all you would 
say, but it ’s too late, too late ! ” 

Thus she continued for three days, and at the close of 


112 


THE HOMESTEAD ON THE HILLSIDE. 


the third, it became evident to all that she was dying, and 
Hester was immediately sent to the hotel, with a request 
that the old porter would come quickly. Half an hour 
after, Lenora bent over her mother’s pillow, and whispered 
in her ear, “ Mother, can you hear me ? ” 

A pressure of the hand was the reply, and Lenora 
continued : “ You have not said that you forgave me, 

and now before you die, will you not tell me so ? ” 

There was another pressure of the hand, and Lenora 
again spoke : “ Mother, would you like to see him — ^my 

father ? He is in the next room.” 

This roused the dying woman, and starting up, she ex- 
claimed, “See John Carter! No, child, no. He’d only 
curse me. Let him wait until I am dead, and then I shall 
not hear it.” 

In ten minutes more, Lenora was sadly gazing upon the 
fixed, stony features of the dead^ A gray-haired man was 
at her side, and his lip quivered, as he placed his hand upon 
the white, wrinkled brow of her who had once been his 
wife. “She is fearfully changed,” were his only words, 
as he turned away from the bhd of death. 

True to her promise, Margaret came to attend her step- 
mother’s funeral. Walter accompanied her, and shud- 
dered as he looked on the face of one who had so dark- 
ened his home, and embittered his life. Kate was not 
there, and when, after the burial, Lenora asked Margaret 
for her, she was told of a little “ Carrie Lenora,” who, 
with pardonable pride, Walter thouglit was the only 
baby of any consequence in the world. Margaret was 
going on with a glowing description of the babe’s many 
beauties, when she was interrupted by Lenora who laid 
her face in her lap and burst mto tears. 

“ Why, Lenora, what is the matter ? ” asked Mai-garet. 

As soon as Lenora became calm, she answered, “ that 


RETRIBUTION. 


113 


name^ Maggie. You liave given my name to Walter 
Hamilton’s child, and if you had hated me, you would 
never have done it.” 

“Plated you!” repeated Margaret, “ we do not hate 
you; now that we understand you, we like you very 
much, and one of Kate’s last injunctions to Walter was, 
that he should again offer you a home with him.” 

Once more Lenora was weeping. She had not shed a 
tear when they carried from sight her mother, hut words 
of kindness touched her heart, and the fountain was 
opened. At last, drying her eyes, she said, “ I prefer to 
go with father. Walter will, of course, come back to 
the homestead, while father and I shall return to our old 
home in Connecticut, where, by being kind to him, I 
hope to atone, in a measure, for my great unkindness to 
mother.” 


CHAPTER XIY. 

FINALE. 

Through the open casement of a small, white cottage 

in the village of P , the rays of the September moon 

are stealing, disclosing to view a gray-haired man, whose 
placid face still shows marks of long years of dissipation. 
Affectionately he caresses the black, curly head, which is 
resting on his knee, and softly he says, “ Lenora, my 
daughter, there are, I trust, years of happiness in store for 
us both.” 

“ I hope it may be so,” was the answer, “ but there is 
no promise of many days to any save those who honor 


114 


THE HOMESTEAD ON THE HILLSIDE. 


their father and mother. This last I have never done, 
though many, many times have I repented of it, and I 
begm to be assured that we may be happy yet.” 

;5e 4: Hs ♦ 

Away to the westward, over many miles of woodland, 
valley, and hill, the same September moon shines upon 
the white walls of the homestead, where sits the owner, 
Walter Hamilton, gazing first upon his wife, and then 
upon the tiny treasure which lies sleeping upon her lap. 

“We are very happy, Katy darling,” he says, and the 
affection which looks from her large, blue eyes, as she 
lifts them to his face, is a sufficient answer. 

Margaret, too, is there, and though but an hour ago her 
tears were falling upon the grass grown graves, where 
slept her father and mother, the gentle Carrie and gol- 
den-haired Willie, they are all gone now, and she re- 
sponds to her brother’s words, “Yes, Walter, we are 
very happy.” 

♦ * ♦ ^ 4: * 

In the basement below the candle is burned to its 
socket, and as the last ray flickers up, illuminating for a 
moment the room, and then leaving it in darkness. Aunt 
Polly Pepper starts from her evening nap, and as if con- 
tinuing her dream, mutters, “ Yes, this is pleasant, and 
something like living.” 

❖ * Ji: 4c Hi * 

And so with the moonlight and starlight falling upon 
the old homestead, and the sunlight of love falling upon 
the hearts of its inmates, we bid them adieu. 


%itt €axntx 


CHAPTER L 

RICE COEITER. 

Yes, Rice Corner ! Do you think it a queer name ? 
Well, Rice Corner was a queer place, and deserved a 
queer name. Now whether it is celebrated for anything 
in particular, I really can’t, at this moment, think, unless, 
indeed, it is famed for having been my birth-place ! 
Whether this of itself is sufficient to immortalize a place, 
future generations may, perhaps, tell, but I have some mis- 
givings whether the present will. This idea may be the 
result of my having recently received sundry knocks over 
the knuckles in the shape of criticisms. 

But I know one thing, — on the bark of that old chest- 
nut tree which stands near Rice Corner school-house, my 
name is cut higher than some of my more bulky cotem- 
porary quill — or rather steel — ^pen-wielders ever dared to 
climb. To be sure, I tore my dress, scratched my face, 
and committed numerous other little rompis/i miss-d.e- 
meanors, which procured for me a motherly scolding. 
That, however, was of minor consideration, when com- 
pared with having my name up — ^in the chestnut tree, at 
least, if it couldn’t be up in the world. But pardon my 
egotism, and I will proceed with my story about Rice 
Corner. 

Does any one wish to know whereabouts on this rolling 


116 


RICE CORNER. 


sphere Rice Corner is situated ? I don’t believe yon can 
find it on the map, unless your eyes are bluer and bigger 
than mine, which last they can’t very well be. But I can 
tell you to a dot where Rice Corner should be. Just 
take your atlas, — ^not the last one published, but Olney’s, 
that’s the one I studied, — and right in one of those little 
towns in Worcester county is Rice Corner, snugly nestled 
among the gray rocks and blue hills of New England. 

Yes, Rice Corner was a great place, and so you would 
have thought could you have seen it in all its phases, 
with its brown, red, green, yellow, and white houses, each 
of which had the usual quantity of rose bushes, lilacs, 
hollyhocks, and sunflowers. You should have seen my 
home, my New England home, where once, not many 
years ago, a happy group of children played. Alas ! alas ! 
some of those who gave the sunlight to that spot, have 
left us now forever, and on the bright shores of the eter- 
nal river they wait and watch our coming. I do not ex- 
pect a stranger to love our old homestead as I loved it, for 
in each heart is a fresh, green spot — the memory of its 
own early home — where the sunehine was brighter, the 
well waters cooler, and the song-bird’s carol sweeter than 
elsewhere they are found. 

I trust I shall be forgiven, if, in this chapter, I pause 
awhile to speak of my home, — aye, and of myself, too, 
when, a light-hearted child, I bounded through the mead- 
ows and orchards which lay around the old brown house 
on my father’s farm. ’Twas a large, square, two-storied 
building, that old brown farm-house, containing rooms, 
cupboards, and closets innumerable, and what Avas better 
than all, a large, airy garret, where, on all rainy days, 
and days Avhen it looked as if it would rain. Bill, Joe, 
Lizzie and I, assembled to hold our noisy revels. Ne-^er, 
since the days of our great-grandmothers, did little spin- 


EICE COENEB. 


117 


ning wheel buzz round faster than did the one which, in 
the darkest corner of that garret, had been safely stowed 
away, where they guessed “ the young-ones would n’t 
find it.” 

“Wouldn’t find it!” I should like to know what 
there was in that old garret that we did n’t find, and ap- 
propriate, too ! Even the old oaken chest which con- 
tained our grandmother’s once fashionable attire, was not 
sacred from the touch of our lawless hands. Into its 
deep recesses we plunged, and brought out such curiosi- 
ties, — the queerest looking, high crowned, broad frilled 
caps, narrow gored shirts, and what was funnier than all, 
a strange looking thing which we thought must be a side- 
saddle, — any way, it fitted Joe’s rocking horse admira- 
bly, although we wondered why so much whalebone was 
necessary ! 

One day, in the midst of our gambols, in walked the 
identical owner of the chest, and seeing the side-saddle, 
she said, somewhat angrily, “ Why, children, where upon 
airth did you find my old stays ? ” We never wondered 
again what made grandma’s back keep its place so much 
better than ours, and Bill had serious thoughts of trying 
the eifect of the stays upon himself. 

In the rear of our house and sloping toward the set- 
ting sun, was a long, winding lane, leading far down into 
a wide-spreading tract of flowery woods, shady hillside, 
and grassy pasture land, each in their turn highly suggest- 
ive of brown nuts, delicious strawberries, and venomous 
snakes. These last were generally more the creatures of 
imagination than of reality, for in all my wanderings over 
those fields, and they were many, I never but once trod 
upon a green snake, and only once was I chased by a 
white ringed black snake ; so I think I am safe in saying 


118 


RICE CORNER. 


that the snakes were not so numerous as were the nuts 
and berries, which grew there in great profusion. 

A little to the right of the woods, where, in winter, 
Bill, Joe, Lizzie, and I dragged our sleds and boards for 
the purpose of riding down hill, was a merry, frolicking 
stream of water, over which, in times long gone, a saw- 
mill had been erected ; but owing to the inefficiency of its 
former owner, or something else, the mill had fallen into 
disuse, and gradually gone to decay. The water of the 
brook, relieved from the necessity of turning the splut^ 
tering wheel, now went gaily dancing down, do^vn into 
the depths of the dim old woods, and far away, I never 
knew exactly -where ; but having heard rumors of a jump- 
ing off place, I had a vague impression that at that spot 
the waters of the miil-dam put up ! 

Near the saw mill, and partially hidden by the scraggy 
pine trees and thick bushes which drooped over its en- 
trance, was a long, dark passage, leading underground ; 
not so large, probably, as Mannnoth Cave, but in my es- 
timation rivaling it in interest. This was an old mine, 
where, years before, men had dug for gold. Strange 
stories were told of those who, with blazing torches, 
and blazing noses, most likely, there toiled for the yellow 
dust. The “Ancient Henry” himself, it Avas said, some- 
times left his affinrs at home, and joined the nightly rev- 
els in that mine, where cards and wine play<id a conspicu- 
ous part. Be that as it may, the old mine was sur- 
rounded by a halo of fear, which we youngsters never 
cared to penetrate. 

On a fine afternoon an older sister would occasionally 
wander that way, together with a young ]M. D., Vvhose 
principal patient seemed to be at our house, for his little 
black pony very frequently found shelter in our stalfie by 
the side of “ old sorrel.” From the north garret window 


EICE CORNER. 


119 


I would watcli them, wondering how they dared venture 
so near the old mine, and wishing, mayhap, that the time 
would come when I, with some daring doctor, would risk 
everything. The time has come^ but alas ! instead of be- 
ing a doctor, he is only a lawyer, who never even saw 
the old mine in Rice Corner. 

Though I never ventured close to the old mine, there 
was, not far from it, one pleasant spot where I loved 
dearly to go. It was on the hillside, where, ’neath the 
shadow of a gracefully twining grape-vine, lay a large, 
flat rock. Thither would I often repair, and sit for hours 
listening to the hum of the running water brook, or the 
song of the summer birds, who, like me, seemed to love 
that place. Often would I gaze far off at the distant, 
misty horizon, wondering if I should ever know what 
was beyond it. Wild fancies then filled my childish 
brain. Strange voices whispered to me thoughts and 
ideas, which, if written down and carried out, would, I 
am sure, have placed my name higher than it was carved 
on the old chestnut tree. 

“ Bat they came and went like shadows, 

Those blessed dreams of youth.” 

I was a strange child, I know. Everybody told me so, 
and I knew it well enough without being told. The wise 
old men of Rice Corner and their still v/iser old wives, 
looked at me askance, as ’neath the thorn-apple tree I 
built my play-house and baked my little loaves of mud 
bread. But when, forgetful of others, I talked aloud to 
myriads of little folks, unseen ’tis true, but still real to 
me, they shook their gray heads ominously, and whisper- 
ing to my mother said, “ Mark our words, that giid will 
one day be crazy. In ten years more she vrill be an in- 
mate of the mad-house ! ” 


120 


EICE COENEE. 


And then I wondered what a raad-house was, and if 
the people there all acted as our school teacher did when 
Bill and the big girls said he was mad ! The ten years 
have passed, and I’m not in a mad-house yet, unless, in- 
deed, it is one of my ovm getting up ! 

One tiling more about Rice Corner, and then, honor 
bright, I’ll tinish the preface and go on with the story. I 
must tell you about the old school-house, and the road 
which led to it. This last wound around a long hill, and 
was skirted on either side with tail trees, flowering dog- 
wood, blackberry bushes, and frost grape-vines. Halfway 
down the hill, and under one of the tallest walnut trees, 
was a little hollow, where dwelt the goblin with which 
nurses, housemaids, hired men, and older sisters were 
wont to frighten refractory children into quietness. It 
was the grave of an old negro. Alas ! that to his last 
resting place the curse should follow him ! Had it been 
a white person who rested there, not half so fearful would 
have been the spot ; now, however, it was “ the old nig- 
ger hole ” — a place to run by, if by accident you were 
caught out after dark — a place to be threatened with, if 
you cried in the night and wanted the candle lighted — a 
landmark where to stop, when going part way home with 
the little girl who had been to visit you, and who, on 
leaving you, ran no less swiftly than you yourself did, 
half fearing that the dusky form in the hollow would rise 
and try his skill at running. V erily, my heart has beat 
faster at the thoughts of that dead negro, than it ever has 
since at the sight of a hundred live specimens, “ way down 
south on the old plantation.” 

The old school-house, too, had its advantages and its 
disadvantages ; of the latter, one was that there, both 
summer and winter, but more especially during the last 
mentioned season, all the rude boys in the place thought 


EICE COENER. 


121 


they had a perfect right to congregate and annoy the 
gii-ls in every possible way. But, never mind, not a few 
wry faces we made at them, and not a few “ blockheads” 
we pinned to their backs! Oh! I’ve had rare times in 
that old house, and have seen there rare sights, too, to 
say nothing of the fights which occasionally occurred. 
In these last, brother Joe generally took the lead of one 
party, while Jim Brown commanded the other. Dire 
was the confusion which reigned at such times. Books 
were hurled from side to side. Then followed in quick 
succession shovel, tongs, poker, water cup, water pail, 
water and all ; and to cap the climax, Jim Brown once 
seized the large iron pan, which stood upon the stove, half 
filled with hot water, and hurled it in the midst of the en- 
emy. Luckily nobody was killed, and but few wounded. 

Years in their rapid flight have rolled away since then, 
and he, my brother, is sleeping alone on the wild shore 
of California. 

For scarcely had the sad tones died, 

AVhich echoed the farewell, 

When o’er the western prairies 
There came a funeral knell; 

It said that he who went from us, 

While yet upon his brow 
The dew of youth was glistening. 

Had passed to heaven now. 


James Brown, too, is resting in the church-yard, near 
his own home, and ’neath his own native sky. 


122 


RICE CORNER. 


CHAPTER II. 

THE BELLE OF RICE CORNER. 

Yes, Rice Corner had a belle, but it was not I. Oh, no, 
nobody ever mistook me for a belle, or much of anything* 
else, in fact ; I was simply “ Mary Jane,” or, if that was 
not consise enough, “Crazy Jane,” set the matter all 
right. The belle of which I speak was a bona fide one — 
fine complexion, handsome features, beautiful eyes, curl- 
ing hair and all. And yet, in her composition there was 
something wanting, something very essential, too; for 
^ she lacked soul, and would at any time have sold her best 
friend for a flattering compliment. 

Still Carrie Howard was generally a favorite. The old 
people liked her because her sparkling eye and merry 
laugh brought back to them a gleam of youth ; the young 
people liked her, because to dislike her would seem like 
envy ; and I, who was nothing, liked her because she was 
pretty, and I greatly admired beauty, though I am not 
certain that I should not have liked a handsome rose-bud 
quite as well as I did Carrie Howard’s beautiful face, for 
beautiful she was. 

Her mother, good, plain Mrs. Howard, was entirely un- 
like her daughter. She was simply “Mrs. Capt. How- 
ard,” or, in other words, “ Aunt Eunice,” whose benevo- 
lent smile and kindly beaming eye carried contentment 
v/herever she went. Really, I don’t know how Rice Cor- 
ner could have existed one day without ^ the presence of 
Aunt Eunice. Was there a cut foot or hand in the neierh- 
borhooci, hers was the salve which healed it, almost as soon 
as applied. Was there a pale, fretful baby. Aunt Eunice’s 
large bmidle of catnip was sure to soothe it • and did a sick 


THE BELLE OF RICE CORNER. 


123 


person need watchers, Aunt Eunice was the one who, 
three nights out of the seven, trod softly and quietly 
about the sick-room, anticipating each want before you 
yourself knew what it was, and smoothing your tumbled 
pillow so gently that you almost felt it a luxury to be 
sick, for the sake of being nursed by Aunt Eunice. The 
very dogs and cats winked more composedly when she 
appeared; and even the chickens learned her voice al- 
most as soon as they did the cluck of their “ maternal 
ancestor.” 

But we must stop, or we shall make Aunt Eunice 
out to be the belle, instead of Carrie, who, instead of 
imitating her mother in her acts of kindness, sat all day 
in the large old parlor, thumping away on a rickety pi- 
ano, or trying to transfer to broadcloth a poor little kittie, 
whose face was sufficiently indicative of surprise at find- 
ing its limbs so frightfully distorted. 

When Carrie was fifteen years of age, her father, con- 
cluding that she knew all which could possibly be learned 
in the little brown house, where Joe and Jim once fought 
so fiercely, sent her for three years to Albany. It was 
currently reported that the uncle with whom she boarded, 
received his pay in butter, cheese, potatoes, apples, and 
other commodities, which v/ere the product of Capt, 
Howard’s farm. Whether this was true or not, I am 
not prepared to say, but I suppose it was, for it was 
told by those who had no ostensible business, except to 
attend to other people’s afiairs, and I am sure they ought 
to have known all about it, and probably did. 

I cannot help thinking that Captain Howard made a 
mistake in sending Carrie away ; :(|§r when at the end of 
three years she had “finished her education,” and returned 
home, she was not half so good a scholar as some 
of those who had j^ored patiently over their books in the 


124 


RICE C0EKE3. 


old brown house. Even I could beat her in spelling, for 
soon after she came home the boys teased for a spelling- 
school. I rather think they were quite as anxious for a 
chance to go home with the girls as they were to have 
their knowledge of Webster tested. Be that as it may, 
Carrie was there, and was, of course, chosen first ; but TJ 
“little crazy Jane,” spelled the whole school down! I 
thought Carrie was not quite so handsome as she might 
be, when with an angry frown she dropped into her seat, 
hissed by a big, cross-eyed, red-haired boy, in the corner, 
because she happened to spell pumpkin, '"'‘p-u-n pun k-i-n 
hm^punkin^'’ I do not think she ever quite forgave me 
for the pert, loud way in which I spelled the word cor- 
rectly, for she never gave me any more calicoes or silks, 
and instead of callmg me “Mollie,” as she had before 
done, she now addressed me as “ Miss Mary.” 

Carrie possessed one accomplishment which the other 
girls did not. She could play the piano most skillfully, 
although as yet she had no instrument. Three weeks, 
however, after her return, a rich man, who lived m the 
village which was known as “ Over the River,” failed, and 
all his furniture was sold at auction. Many were the sur- 
mises of my grandmother, on the morning of the sale, as 
to what “ C ap’n Howard could be going to buy at the 
vandue and put in the big lumber wagon,” which he 
drove past our house. 

As the day drew to a close, I was posted at the window 
to telegraph as soon as “ Cap’n Howard’s ” white horses 
appeared over the hill. They came at last, but the long 
box in his wagon tbfd no secret. Father, however, ex- 
plained all, by sayin^that he had bid off Mr. Talbott’s 
old piano for seventy a ollars ! Grandma shook her head 
mournfully at the degeneracy of the age, while sister 
Anna spoke sneeringly of Mr. Talbott’s cracked piano. 


THE BELLE OF EICE CORNEE. 


125 


ISText day, arrayed in my Sunday red merino and white 
apron — a present from some cousin out west — I went to 
see Carrie ; and truly, the music she drew from that old 
piano charmed me more than the finest performances since 
have done. Carrie and her piano were now the theme of 
every tongue, and many wondered how Captain Howard 
could afford to pay for three years’ music lessons ; but this 
was a mystery yet to be solved. 


CHAPTER HI. 

MONSIEUR PENOTER. 

When Carrie had been at home about three months, 
all Rice Corner one day flew to the doors and windows 
to look at a stranger, a gentleman with fierce mustaches, 
who seemed not at all certain of his latitude, and evidently 
wanted to know where he was going. At least, if he 
didn’t, they who watched him did. 

Grandma, whose longevity had not impaired her guess- 
ing faculties, first suggested that “ most likely it was Car’- 
line Howard’s beau.” This was altogether too probable 
to be doubted, and as grandmother had long contempla- 
ted a visit to Aunt Eunice, she now determined to go 
that very afternoon, as she “ could judge for herself what 
kind of a match Car’line had made.” Mother tried to 
dissuade her from going that day, but the old lady was 
incorrigible, and directly after dinner, dressed in her bom- 
basm, black silk apron, work bag, knitting and all, she de- 
parted for Captain Howard’s. 


126 


EICE CORNEE, 


They wouldn’t confess it, but I knew well enough that 
Juliet and Anna were impatient for her return, and when 
the shadows of twilight began to fall, I was twice sent into 
the road to see if she was coming. The last time I was 
successful, and in a few moments grandmother was among 
us ; but whatever she knew she kept to herself until the 
lamps were lighted in the sitting-room, and she, in her 
stuffed rocking-chair, was toeing off the stocking only 
that morning commenced. Then, at a hint from Anna, 
she cast toward Lizzie and me a rueful glance, saying, 
“There are too many pitchers here ! ” I knew then just 
as well as I did five mmutes after, that Lizzie and I must 
go to bed. There was no help for it, and we complied 
•with a tolerably good grace. Lizzie proposed that we 
should listen, but somehow I couldn’t do that, and up to this 
time I don’t exactly know what grandmother told them. 

The next day, however, I heard enough to know that 
his name was Penoyer ; that grandma did n’t like him ; 
tliat he had as much hair on his face as on his head ; that 
Aunt Eunice would oppose the match, aiid that he would 
stay over Sunday. With this last I was delighted, for I 
should see him at church. I saw him before that, how- 
ever ; for it was unaccountable what a fancy Carrie sud- 
denly took for traversing the woods and riding on horse- 
back, for which purpose grandfather’s side-saddle (not 
the onewith which Joe saddled his pony!) was borrowed, 
and tlien, with her long curls and blue riding skirt floating 
in the wind, Carrie galloped over hills and through val- 
leys, accompanied by Penoyer, who was a flerce looking 
fellow, vdth black eyes, black hair, black whiskers, and 
black face. 

I couldn’t help fancying that the negro who lay beneath 
the walnut tree, had resembled him, and I cried for fear 
Carrie might marry so ugly a man, thinking it would not 


MONSIEUK PENOYEE. 


127 


be altogether unlike, “ Beauty and the Beast.” Sally, our 
housemaid, said that “ most likely he’d prove to be some 
poor, mean scamp. Any way, seein’ it was plantin’ time, 
he’d better be to hum tendin’ to his own business, if he 
had any.” 

Sally was a shrewd, sharp-sighted girl, and already had 
her preference in favor of Michael Welsh, father’s hired 
man. Walking, riding on horseback, and wasting time 
generally, Sally held in great abhorrence. “All she 
wished to say to Mike on week days, she could tell him 
milking time.” On Sundays, however, it was different, 
and regularly each Sunday night found Mike and Sally 
snugly ensconced in the “ great room,” while under the 
windows occasionally might have been seen three or four 
curly heads, eager to hear something about which to tease 
Sally during the week. 

But to return to Monsieur Penoyer, as Carrie called 
him. His stay was prolonged beyond the Sabbath, and 
on Tuesday I was sent to Capt. Howard’s on an errand. 
I found Aunt Eunice in the kitchen, her round, rosy face, 
always suggestive of seed cake and plum pudding, flushed 
with exertion, her sleeves tucked up and her arms buried 
in a large wooden bowl of dough, which she said was go- 
ing to be made into loaves of ’lection cake, as Carrie was 
to have a party to-morrow, and I had come just in time 
to carry invitations to my sisters. 

Carrie was in the parlor, and attracted by the sound of 
music, I drew near the door, when Aunt Eunice kindly 
bade me enter. I did so, and was presented to Monsieur Pe- 
noyer. At first, I was shy of him, for I remembered that 
Sally had said, “he don’t know nothin’,” and this in my es- 
timation v/as the worst crime of which he could be guilty. 
Gradually, my timidity gave way, and when, at Carrie’s 


128 


BICE CORNER. 


request, he played and sang for me, I was perfectly de- 
lighted, although I understood not a word he said. 

When he finished, Carrie told him I was a little poet, 
and then repeated some foolish lines I had once written 
about her eyes. It was a very handsome set of teeth 
which he showed, as he said, “ Magnijique ! Tres Men / 
She be another grand Dr. Watts ! ” 

I knew not who Dr. Watts was, but on one point my 
mind was made up — Monsieur Penoyer knew a great deal ! 
Ere I left, Carrie commissioned me to invite my sisters to 
her party on the morrow, and as I was leaving the room, 
M. Penoyer said, “ Ma chere Carrie, why vous no invite 
la petite girl ! ” 

Accordingly I was invited, with no earthly prospect, 
however, of mother’s letting me go. And she didn’t 
either ; so next day, after Juliet and Anna were gone, I 
went out behind the smoke-house and cried until I got 
sleepy, and a headache too ; then, wishing to make mother 
think I had run away., I crept carefully up stairs to Bill’s 
room, where I slept until Sally’s sharp eyes ferreted me 
out, saying, “ they were all scared to death about me, and 
had looked for me high and low,” up in the garret and 
down in the well, I supposed. Concluding they were 
plagued enough,! condescended to go down stairs, and have 
my head bathed in camphor and my feet parboiled in hot 
water ; then I went to bed and dreamed of white teeth, 
culling mustaches and “ Parlez vous Francais.^'* 

Of what occurred at the party I will tell you as it was 
told to me. All the elite of Bice Corner were there, of 
course, and as each new arrival entered the parlor, M. 
Penoyer eyed them coolly through an opera glass. Sister 
Anna returned his inspection with the worst face she could 
well make up, for which I half blamed her and half didn’t, 


MONSIEUR PENOYER. 


129 


as I felt sure I should have done the same under like cir- 
cumstances. 

When all the invited guests had arrived, except myself, 
(alas, no one asked why I tarried,) there ensued an awk- 
ward silence, broken only by the parrot-like chatter of M. 
Penoyer, who seemed determined to talk nothing but 
French, although Carrie understood him but little better 
than did the rest. At last he was posted up to the piano. 

“ Mon Dieu, it be von horrid tone,” said he ; then off 
he dashed into a galloping waltz, keeping time with his 
head, mouth, and eyes, which threatened to leave their 
sockets and pounce upon the instrument. Rattlety-bang 
went the piano — like lightning went Monsieur’s fingers, 
first here, then there, right or wrong, hit or miss, and of- 
tener miss than hit — now alighting among the keys pro- 
miscuously, then with a tremendous thump making all 
bound again, — and finishing up with a flourish, which 
snapped two strings and made all the rest groan in sym- 
pathy, as did the astonished listeners. For a time all was 
still, and then a little modest girl, Lily Gordon, her face 
blushing crimson, ‘said, “ I beg your pardon, Monsiem*, 
but haven’t you taught music ! ” 

The veins in his forehead swelled, as, darting a wrathful 
look at poor Lily, he exclaimed, “ Le Liable ! vat vous 
take me for ? Von dem musique teacher, eh ? ” 

Poor Lily tried to stammer her apologies, while Carrie 
sought to soothe the enraged Frenchman, by saying, that 
“Miss Gordon was merely complimenting his skill in 
music.” 

At this point, the carriage which carried persons to 
and from the depot drove up, and from it alighted a very 
small, genteel looking lady, who rapped at the door and 
asked, “ if Capt. Howard lived there.” 

In a moment Carrie was half stifling her with kisses, ex- 

9 


130 


EICE COEI^EE. 


claiming, “Dear Agnes, this is a pleasant surprise. I did 
not expect you so soon.” 

The lady called Agnes, was introduced as Miss Hovey, 
a school-mate of Carrie’s. She seemed very much dis- 
posed to make herself at home, for, throwing her hat in 
one place and her shawl in another, she seated herself at 
the piano, hastily running over a few notes ; then with a 
gesture of impatience, she said, “ O, horrid ! a few more 
such sounds would give me the vapors for a month ; why 
don’t you have it tuned ? ” 

Ere Carrie could reply, Agnes’ eyes lighted upon Pe- 
noyer, who, either with or without design, had drawn 
himself as closely into a corner as he well could. Spring- 
ing up, she brought her little hands together with energy, 
exclaiming, “ Now, heaven defend me, what fresh game 
brought you here ? ” Then casting on Carrie an angry 
glance, she said, in a low tone, “ What does it mean ? 
Why didn’t you tell me ? ” 

Carrie drew nearer, and said coaxingly, “ I didn’t ex- 
pect you so soon ; but, never mind, he leaves to-morrow. 
For my sake treat him decently.” 

The pressure which Agnes gave Carrie’s hand seemed 
to say, “ For your sake, I will, but for no other.” Then 
turning to Penoyer, who had risen to his feet, she said 
respectfully, “ I hardly expected to meet you here, sir.” 

Her tone and manner had changed. Penoyer knew it, 
and, with the coolest effrontery imaginable, he came for- 
ward, bowing and scraping, and saying, “ Comment vous 
portez vous. Mademoiselle. J e suis perfaitement delighted 
to see you,” at the same time offering her his hand. 

All saw with what hauteur she declined it, but only one, 
and that was Anna, heard her as she said, “ Keep off, Pe- 
noyer ; don’t make a donkey of yourself.” Jt was strange, 
Anna said, “ how far into his boots Penoyer tried to draw 


MONSIEUR PENOTEE. 


131 


himself,” while at each fresh flash of Agnes’ keen, black 
eyes, he winced, either from fear or sympathy. 

The restramt which had surrounded the little company 
gave way beneath the lively sallies and sparkling wit of 
Agnes, who, instead of seeming amazed at the country 
girls, was apparently as much at ease as though she had 
been entertaining a drawing room full of polished city 
belles. When at last the party broke up, each and every 
one was in love with the little Albany lady, although all 
noticed that Carrie seemed troubled, watching Agnes nar- 
rowly; and whenever she saw her tete-a-tete with either of 
her companions, she would instantly draw near, and seem 
greatly reheved on finding that Penoyer was not the sub- 
ject of conversation. 

“ I told you so,” was grandmother’s reply, when in- 
formed of all this. “I told you so. I knew Car’line 
warn’t goin’ to make out no great.” 

Juliet and Anna thought so too, but this did not pre- 
vent them from running to the wmdows next morning to 
see Penoyer as he passed on his way to the cars. I, who 
with Lizzie was tugging away at a big board with which 
we thought to make a “ see-saw,” was honored with a 
graceful wave of Monsieur’s hands, and the words, “ Au 
revoir, ma chere Marie.” 

That day Phoebe, Aunt Eunice’s liired girl, came to 
our house. Immediately Juliet and Anna assailed her 
with a multitude of questions. The amount of knowledge 
obtained was, that “ Miss Hovey was a lady, and no mis- 
take, for she had sights of silks and jewelry, and she that 
morning went with Phoebe to see her milk, although she 
didn’t dare venture inside the yard. “ But,” added Phoebe, 
“ for all she was up so early she did not come out to 
breakfast until that gentleman was gone.” 

This was fresh proof that Penoyer was not “comme il 


132 


EICE COKNEE. 


faut,” and Anna expressed her determination to find out 
all about him ere Agnes went home. I remembered “ Dr. 
Waits and the invitation to the party, and secretly 
hoped she would find out nothing bad. 


CHAPTER IV. 

COirSiK EMMA. 

Agnes had been in town about two weeks, when my 
home was one morning thrown into a state of unusual ex- 
citement by the arrival of a letter from Boston, contain- 
ing the intelligence that Cousin Emma Rushton, who had 
been an invalid for more than a year, was about to try 
the effect of country life and country air. 

This piece of news operated differently upon different 
members of our family. Juliet exclaimed, “ Good, good; 
Carrie Howard won’t hold her head quite so high, now, 
for we shall have a city lady, too.” Anna was delighted, 
because she would thus have an opportunity of acquiring 
city manners and city fashions. Sally said, snappishly, 
“ There’s enough to wait on now, without having a stuck- 
up city flirt, faintin’ at the sight of a worm, and screachin’ 
if a fly comes toward her.” Mother had some misgivings 
on the subject. She was perfectly willing Emma should 
come, but she doubted our ability to entertain her, know- 
ing that the change would be great from a fashionable 
city home to a country farm-house. I^randmother, who 
loved to talk of “ my daughter in the city,” was pleased, 
and to console mother, said, “Never you mind, Fanny; 


COUSIN EMMA, 


133 


leave her to me ; you find victuals and drink, and I ’ll do 
the entertaining.” 

Among so many opinions it was hard for me to arrive 
at a conclusion. On the whole, however, I was glad, un- 
til told that during Cousin Emma’s stay our garret gam- 
bols must be given up, and that I must not laugh loud, or 
scarcely speak above a whisper, for she was sick, and it 
would hurt her head. Then I wished Cousin Emma and 
Cousin Emma’s head would stay where they belonged. 

The letter was received on Monday, but Emma would 
not come until Thursday ; so there was ample time for 
“fixing up.” The parlor-chamber was repapered, the 
carpet taken up and shaken, red and white curtains hung 
at the windows, a fresh ball of Castile soap bought for 
the washstand, and on Thursday morning our pretty 
flower beds were shorn of their finest ornaments, with 
which to make bouquets for the parlor and parlor-cham- 
ber. Besides that, Sally had filled the pantry with cakes, 
pies, gingerbread, and Dutch cheese, to the last of which 
I fancied Emma’s city taste v/ould not take kindly. Then 
there was in the cellar a barrel of fresh beer ; so every- 
thing was done which could be expected. 

When I went home for my dinner that day, I teased 
hard to be allowed to stay out of school for one afternoon, 
but mother said “i^o,” although she suffered me to wear 
my pink gingham, with sundry injunctions “ not to burst 
the hooks and eyes all off before night.” This, by the way, 
was my besetting sin ; I never could climb a tree, no mat- 
ter what the size might be, without invariably coming 
down minus at least six hooks and eyes ; but I seriously 
thought I should get over it when I got older and joined 
the church. 

That afternoon seemed of interminable length, but at 
last I saw father’s carriage coming, and quick as thought 


134 


EICE CORNEK. 


I threw my grammar out of the window ; after which I 
demurely asked “ to go out and get a hook which I had 
dropped.” Permission was granted, and I was out just 
in time to courtesy straight down, as father, pointing to 
me, said, “ There, that’s our little crazy Mollie,” and then 
I got a glimpse of a remarkably sweet face, which made 
the tears come in my eyes, it was so pale. 

Perhaps I wronged our school teacher; I think I did, 
for she has since died ; but really I fancied she kept us 
longer that night on purpose. At least, it was nearly five 
before we were dismissed. Then, with my bonnet in 
hand, I ran for home, falling down once, and bursting off 
the lower hook ! I entered the house with a bound, but 
was quieted by grandmother, who said Emma was lying 
down, and I mustn’t disturb her. 

After waiting some time for her to make her appear- 
ance, I stole softly up the stairs and looked in where she 
was. She saw me, and instantly rising, said, with a smile 
that went to my heart : “And this must be Mary, the lit- 
tle crazy girl ; come and kiss your Cousin Emma.” 

Twining my arms around her neck, I think I must have 
cried, for she repeatedly asked me what was the matter, 
and as T could think of no better answer, I at last told her, 
“ I didn’t like to have folks call me crazy. I couldn’t help 
acting like Sal Furbush^ the old crazy woman, who threat- 
ened to toss us up in the umbrella.” 

“ Forgive me, darling,” said Emma, coaxingly, “ I will 
not do it again;” then stooping down, she looked intently 
into my eyes, soliloquizing, “ Y es, it is wrong to tell her so.” 

In a few moments I concluded Emma was the most beau- 
tiful creature in the world; I would not even except Car- 
rie Howard. Emma’s features were perfectly regular, 
and her complexion white and pure as alabaster. Her 
hair, which was a rich auburn, lay around her forehead in 


cousm EilAIA. 


135 


thick waves, but her great beauty consisted in her lus- 
trous blue eyes, which were very large and dark. When 
she was pleased they laughed, and when she was sad 
they were sad, too. Her dress was a white muslin 
wrapper, confined at the waist by a light blue ribbon, 
while one of the same hue encircled her neck, and was 
fastened by a small gold pin, which, with the exception 
of the costly diamond ring on her finger, was the only or- 
nament she wore. 

When supper was ready, I proudly led her to the di- 
ning-room, casting a look of triumph at J uliet and Anna, 
and feeling, it may be, a trifle above grandmother, who 
said, “ Don’t be troublesome, child.” 

How grateful I was when Emma answered for me, 
“ She doesn’t trouble me in the least ; I am very fond of 
children.” 

Indeed, she seemed to be very fond of everybody and 
everything — all except Sally’s Dutch cheese, which, as I 
expected, she hardly relished. In less than three days 
she was beloved by all the household ; Billy whispering to 
me confidentially that “ never before had he seen any one 
except mother^ whom he would like to marry.” 

Saturday afternoon Carrie and Agnes called on Emma, 
and as I saw them together I fancied I had never looked 
on three more charming faces. They appeared mutually 
pleased with each other, too, although for some reason 
there seemed to be more affinity between Emma and Ag- 
nes. Carrie appeared thoughtful and absent-minded, 
which made Anna joke her about her “ lover, Penoyer.’^ 
As she was about leaving the room, she made no reply, 
but after she was gone, Agnes looked searchingly at 
Anna and said, “ Is it possible, hliss iVnna, that you are 
so mistaken ? ” 


136 


EICE COEXEK. 


“ How — ^why ? ” asked Anna. “ Is Penoyer a bad man ? 
What is his occupation ? ” 

“ His occupation is well enough,” returned Agnes. “I 
would not think less of him for that, were he right in 
other respects. However, he was Carrie’s and my own 
music teacher.” 

“Impossible,” said Anna, but at that moment Carrie 
reentered the room, and, together with Agnes, soon took 
her leave. 

“ Penoyer a music teacher, after all his anger at Lily 
Gordon, for suggesting such an idea ! ” This was now 
the theme of Juliet and Anna, although they wondered 
what there was so had about him — something, evidently, 
from Agnes’ manner, and for many days they puzzled 
their brains in vain to solve the mystery. 


CHAPTER V. 

EICHARD EVELYX AND HARLEY ASHMORE. 

Emma had not long been with us, ere her fame reached 
the little village “ over the river,” and drew from thence 
many calls, both from gentlemen ■ and ladies. Among 
these was a Mr. Richard Evelyn and his sister, both of 
whom had the honor of standing on the topmost round 
of the aristocratic ladder in the village. Mr. Evelyn^ who 
was nearly thirty years of age, was a wealthy lawyer, and 
what is a little remarkable for that craft, (I speak from 
experience,) to an unusual degree of intelligence and pol- 
ish of manners, he added many social and religious quali- 
ties. Many kind-hearted mothers, who had on their hands 


EICHAED EVELT^r AND HAELET ASHMOEE. 137 

good-for-nothing daughters, wondered how he managed 
to live without a wife, but he seemed to think it the easi- 
est thing in nature, for, since the death of his parents, his 
sister Susan had acted in the capacity of his housekeeper. 

I have an idea that grandmother, whose disposition 
was slightly spiced Avith a loA^e for match-making, be- 
thought herself how admirably Mr. Evelyn and Emma 
were suited for each other ; for, after his calls became fre- 
quent, I heard her many times slily hint of the possibil- 
ity of our being able to keep Emma in town always. She^ 
probably, did not think so ; for, each time after being 
teased, she repaired to her room and read, for the twen- 
tieth time, some ominous looking letters which she had 
received since being with us. 

It was now three weeks since she came, and each day 
she had gained in health and strength. Twice had she 
Avalked to the woods, accompanied by Mr. Evelyn, once 
to the school-house, while CA^ery day she SAVung under the 
old maple. About this time Agnes began to think of re- 
turning home, so Juliet and Anna determined on a party 
in honor of her and Emma. It was a bright summer af- 
ternoon; and, for a AV^onder, I was suffered to remain 
from school, although I received numerous charges to 
keep my tongue still, and AA^as again reminded of that ex- 
cellent old proverb, (the composition of some old maid, I 
kiiOAA",) “ children should be seen and not heard ; ” so, 
seated in a corner, my hand pressed closely over my 
mouth, the better to guard against contingencies, I looked 
on and thought, Avith ineffable satisfaction, how much 
handsomer Cousin Emma was than any one else, although 
I could not help acknowledging that Carrie never looked 
more beautifal than she did that afternoon, in a neatly- 
fitting Avhite muslin, with a fcAv rose-buds nestling in her 
long, glossy curls. 


138 


EICE COENER. 


Matters were going on swimmingly, and I had three 
times ventured a remark, when Anna, who was sitting 
near the window, exclaimed, “ Look here, girls, did you 
ever see a finer looking gentleman ? ” at the same time 
callmg their attention to a stranger in the street. Emma 
looked, too, and the bright flush which sufiused her cheek 
made me associate the gentleman with the letters she had 
received, and I was not surprised when he entered our 
yard and knocked at our door. Juliet arose to answer 
his summons, but Emma prevented her, saying, “ Sufler 
me to go, will you ? ” 

She was gone some time, and when she returned was 
accompanied by the stranger, whom she introduced as 
Mr. Ashmore. I surveyed him with childish curiosity, 
and drew two very satisfactory breaths when I saw that 
he was wholly unlike Monsieur Penoyer. He was a very 
fine looking man, but I did not exactly like the expression 
of his face. It was hardly open enough to suit me, and I 
noticed that he never looked you directly in the eye. In 
five minutes I had come to the conclusion that he was not 
half so good a man as Mr. Evelyn. I was in great dan- 
ger, however, of changing my mind, when I saw how 
fondly his dark eye rested on Emma, and how delighted 
he seemed to be at her improved health ; and when he, 
without any apparent exertion, kept the whole company 
entertained, I was charmed, and did not blame Emma for 
lildng him. Anna’s doctor was nothing to him, and I 
even fancied that he would dare to go all alone to the old 
mine ! 

Suddenly he faced about, and espying me in the corner, 
he said, “ Here is a little lady I’ve not seen. Will some 
one introduce me ? ” 

With the utmost gravity, Anna said, “ It is my sister, 
little crazy Jane.” 


RICHARD EVELYN AND HARLEY ASHMORE. 


139 


I glanced quickly at him to see how he would receive 
the intelligence, and when, looking inquiringly first at me 
and then at Emma, he said, “ Is it really so ? what a 
pity ! ” the die was cast — I never liked him again. That 
night in my little low bed, long after Lizzie was asleep, I 
wept bitterly, wondering what made Anna so unkind, and 
why people called me crazy. I knew I looked like other 
children, and I thought I acted like them, too ; unless, 
indeed, I climbed more trees, tore more dresses, and burst 
off more hooks. 

But to return to the party. After a time I thought 
that Mr. Ashmore’s eyes went over admiringly to Carrie 
more frequently than was necessary, and for once I re- 
gretted that she was so pretty. Ere long, Mr. Ashmore, 
too, went over, and immediately there ensued between 
himself and Carrie a lively conversation, in which she 
adroitly managed to let him know that she had been 
three years at school in Albany. The next thmg that I 
saw was that he took from her curls a rose-bud and ap- 
propriated it to his button hole. I glanced at Emma to 
see how she was affected, but her face was perfectly calm, 
and wore the old sweet smile. When the young ladies 
were about leaving, I was greatly shocked to see Mr. 
Ashmore offer to accompany Carrie and Agnes home. 

After they were gone, grandmother said, “ Emma, if 
I’s you, I’d put a stop to that chap’s flirtin’ so with Car’- 
line Howard.” 

Emma laughed gaily, as she rej^lied, “ Oh, grandma, I 
can trust Harley ; I have been sick so long that he has 
the privilege of walking or riding with anybody he 
pleases.” 

Grandmother shook her head, saying, “ It was n’t so 
with her and our poor grandfather then I feU into a fit 
of musing as to whether grandma was ever young, and if 


140 


EICE COENER. 


she ever fixed her hair before the glass, as Anna did when 
she expected the doctor I In the midst of my reverie, 
Mr. Ashmore returned, and for the remainder of the eve- 
ning devoted himself so entirely to Emma that I forgave 
him for going home with Carrie. Next day, however, 
he found the walk to Capt. Howard’s a very convenient 
one, staying a long time, too. The next day it was the 
same, and the next, and the next, until I fancied that even 
Emma began to be anxious. 

Grandma was highly indignant, and Sally declared, 
“ that, as true as she lived and breathed, if Mike should 
serve her so, he’d catch it.” About this time, Agnes 
went home. The evening before she left, she spent at 
our house with Emma, of whom she seemed to be very 
fond. Carrie and Ashmore were, as usual, out riding or 
walking, and the conversation naturally turned upon them. 
At last, Anna, whose curiosity was still on the alert, to 
know something of Penoyer, asked Agnes of him. I will 
repeat, in substance, "what Agnes said. 

It seems that for many years Penoyer had been a teacher 
of music in Albany. Agnes was one of his pupils, and 
while teaching her music he thought proper to fall over- 
whelmingly in love with her. This, for a time, she did 
not notice ; but wdien his attentions became so pointed as 
to become a subject of remark, she very coolly tried to 
make him understand his position. He persevered, how- 
ever, until he became exceedingly impudent and annovino*. 

About this time there came well authenticated stories 
of his being not only a professed gambler, but also very 
dissipated in his habits. To this last charge Agnes could 
testify, as his breath had frequently betrayed him. He 
was accordingly dismissed. Still he perseveringly pur- 
sued her, always managing, if possible, to get near her in 
all public places, and troubling her in various ways. 


EICHAED EVELYN AND HAELET ASHMORE. 


141 


At last Agnes heard that he was showing among her 
acquaintances two notes bearing her signature. The con- 
tents of these notes he covered with his hand, exposing to 
view only her name. She had twice written, requesting 
him to purchase some new piece of music, and it was these 
messages which he was now showing, insinuating that 
Agnes thought favorably of him, but was opposed by her 
father. The consequence of this was, that the next time 
Agnes’ brother met Penoyer in the street, he gave him a 
sound caning, ordering him, under pain of a v/orse flog- 
ging, never again to mention his sister’s name. This he 
was probably more willing to do, as he had already con- 
ceived a great liking for Carrie, who was silly enough to 
be pleased with and sufier his attentions. 

“I wonder, though, that Carrie allowed him to visit 
her,” said Agnes, “ but then I believe she is under some 
obligations to him, and dare not refuse when he asked 
permission to come.” 

If Agnes knew what these obligations were, she did not 
tell, and grandmother, who, during the narration had knit 
with unwonted speed, making her needles rattle again, 
said, “ It’s plain to me that Car’line let him come to make 
folks think she had got a city beau.” 

“ Quite likely, ” returned Agnes ; “ Carrie is a sad flirt, 
but I think, at least, that she should not interfere with other 
people’s rights.” 

Here my eye followed hers to Emma, who, I thought, 
was looking a httle paler. Just then Carrie and Ashmore 
came in, and the latter throwing himself upon the sofa by 
the side of Emma, took her hand caressingly, saying, 
“ How are you to-night, my dear ? ” 

“ Quite well,” was her quiet reply, and soon after, under 
pretense of moving from the window, she took a seat 
across the room. That night Mr. Ashmore acoorapanied 


142 


RICE CORNER. 


Carrie and Agnes home, and it was at a much later hour 
than usual, that old Rover first growled and then whined 
as he recognized our visitor. 

The next morning Emma was suffering from a severe 
headache, which prevented her from appearing at break- 
fast. Mr. Ashmore seemed somewhat disturbed, and made 
many anxious inquiries about her. At dinner time she 
was well enough to come, and the extreme kindness of 
Mr. Ashmore’s manner called a deep glow to her cheek. 
After dinner, however, he departed for a walk, taking his 
accustomed road toward Capt. Howard’s. 

When I returned from school he was still absent, and as 
Emma was quite well, she asked me to accompany her to 
my favorite resort, the old rock beneath the grape-vine. 
We were soon there, and for a long time we sat watching 
the shadows as they came and went upon the bright green 
grass, and listening to the music of the brook, which 
seemed to me to sing more sadly than it was wont to do. 

Suddenly our ears were arrested by the sound of voices, 
which we knew belonged to Mr. Ashmore and Carrie. 
They were standing near us, just behind a clump of alders, 
and Carrie, in reply to something Mr. Ashmore had said, 
answered, “ Oh, you can’t be in earnest, for you have only 
known me ten days, and besides that, what have you done 
with your pale, sick lady ? ” 

Instantly I started up, clinching my fist in imitation of 
brother Billy when he was angry, but Cousin Emma’s arm 
was thrown convulsively around me, as drawing me closely 
to her side, she whispered, “ keep quiet.” 

I did keep quiet, and listened while Mr. Ashmore re- 
plied, “ I entertain for Miss Rushton the highest esteem, 
for I know she possesses many excellent qualities. Once 
I thought I loved her, (how tightly Emma held me,) but 
she has been sick a long time, and somehow I cannot 


V 


EICSAED EVELYN AND HAELEY ASHMOEE. 


143 


marry an invalid. Whether she ever gets well is doubt- 
ful, and even if she does, after having seen you, she can 
be nothing to me. And yet I like her, and when I am 
alone with her I almost fancy I love her, but one look at 
your sparkhng, healthy face drives her from my mind — . 

The rest of what he said I could not hear, neither did I 
understand Carrie’s answer, but his next words were dis- 
tinct, “My dear Carrie forever.” 

I know the brook stopped running, or at least I did not 
hear it. The sun went down ; the birds went to rest ; 
Mr. Ashmore and Carrie went home ; and still I sat there 
by the side of Emma, Avho had lain her head in my lap, 
and was so still and motionless that the dread fear came 
over me that she might be dead. I attempted to lift her 
up, saying, “ Cousin Emma, speak to me, won’t you ? ” 
but she made me no answer, and another ten minutes went 
by. By this time the stars had come out and were look- 
mg quietly down upon us. The waters of the mill-dam 
chanted mournfully, and in my disordered imagination, 
fantastic images danced before the entrance of the old 
mine. Half crying with fear, I again laid my hand on 
Emma’s head. Her hair was wet with the heavy night 
dews, and my eyes were wet with something else, as I 
said, “ Oh, Emma, speak to me, for I am afraid and want 
to go home.” 

This roused her, and lifting up her head I caught a 
glimse of a face of so startling whiteness, that throwing 
my arms around her neck, I cried, “ Oh, Emma, dear Em- 
ma, don’t look so. I love you a grOat deal better than I 
do Carrie Howard, and so I am sure does Mr. Evelyn.” 

I don’t knoAV how I chanced to think of Mr. Evelyn, 
but he recurred to me naturally enough. All thoughts 
of him, however, were soon driven fr-om my mind, by the 


144 


EICE CORNER. 


sound of Emma’s voice, as she said, “ Mollie, darling, can 
you keep a secret ? ” 

I didn’t think I could, as I never had been entrusted 
with one, so I advised her to give it to Anna, who was 
very fond of them. But she said, l am sure you can do 
it, Mollie. Promise me that you will not tell them at 
home what you have seen or heard.” 

I promised, and then in my joy at ovuing a secret, I forgot 
the little figures Avhich waltzed back and forth before the 
old mine, I forgot the woods through which we passed, 
nor was the silence broken until we reached the lane. 
Then I said, “ What shall we tell the folks when they ask 
where we have been ? ” 

“ Leave that to me,” answered Emma. 

As we drew near the house, we met grandmother, Ju- 
liet, Anna and Sally, all armed and equipped for a general 
hunt. We were immediately assailed with a score of 
questions as to what had kept us so long. I looked to 
Emma for the answer, at the same time keeping my hand 
tightly over my mouth for fear I should tell. 

“We found more things of interest than we expected,” 
said Emma, consequently tarried longer than we should 
otherwise have done.” 

“ Why, how hoarse you be,” said grandmother, while 
Sally continued, “ Starlight is a mighty queer time to see 
things in.” 

“ Some things look better by starlight,” answered Em- 
ma ; but w^e staid longer than we ought to, for I have 
got a severe headache and must go immediately to bed.” 

“ Have some tea first,” said grandmother, “ and some 
strawberries and cream,” repeated Sally ; but Emma de- 
clined both and went at once to her room. 

Mr. Ashmore did not come home until late that night, 
for I was awake and heard him stumbling up stairs in the 


EICHARD EVELYN AND HAELEY ASHMOEE. 145 

dark. I remember, too, of having experienced the very 
benevolent wish that he would break his neck ! As I ex- 
pected, Emma did not make her appearance at the break- 
fast table, but about ten she came down to the parlor and 
asked to see Mr. Ashmore alone. Of what occurred du- 
ring that interval I never knew, except that at its close 
cousin looked very white, and Mr. Ashmore very black, 
notwithstanding which he soon took his accustomed walk 
to Capt. Howard’s. He was gone about three hours, and 
on his return announced his intention of going to Boston 
in the afternoon train. No one opposed him, for all were 
glad to have him go. 

J ust before he left, grandmother, who knew all was not 
right, said to him, — “ Young man, I wish you well ; but 
mind what I say, you’ll get your pay yet for the capers 
you’ve cut here.” 

“ I beg your pardon, madam,” he returned, with much 
more emphasis on madam than was at all necessary, “ I 
beg your pardon, but I think she has cut the capers, at 
least she dismissed me of her own accord.” 

I thought of what I had heard, but ’twas a secret, so I 
kept it safely, although I almost bit my tongue off in my 
zealous efforts. After Ashmore was gone, Emma, who 
had taken a violent cold the evening before, took her bed, 
and was slightly ill for nearly a week. Almost every day 
Mr. Evelyn called to see how she was, always bringing 
her a fresh bouquet of flowers. On Thursday, Carrie 
called, bringing Emma some ice cream which Aunt Eu- 
nice had made. She did not ask to see her, but before 
she left she asked Anna if she did not vdsh to buy her old 
piano. 

“ What wiU you do without it ? ” asked Anna. 

“ Oh,” said Carrie, “ I cannot use two. I have got a 
new one.” 

. 10 


146 


KICE COEIOiE. 


The stocking dropped from grandmother’s hand as she 
exclaimed — “ What is the Avorld a cornin’ to ! Got two 
pianners ! Where’d you get ’em ? ” 

“ My new one was a present, and came from Boston,” 
answered Carrie, with the utmost sang froid. 

“ You don’t say Ashmore sent it to you ! — ^how much 
did it cost ? ” asked grandma. 

“ Mr. Ashmore wrote that it cost three hundred and 
fifty dollars,” was Carrie’s reply. 

Grandmother was perfectly horror stricken; but de- 
sirous of making Carrie feel as comfortable as possible, she 
said, “ Sposin’ somebody should tell him about Penoyer ? ” 
For an insta t Carrie turned pale, as she said quickly, 
“ What does any one know about him to tell ? ” 

‘‘ A great deal — ^more than you think they do — yes, a 
great deal,” was grandma’s answer. 

After that, Carrie came very fi'equently to see us, al- 
ways bringing something nice for Emma or grandma / 
Meanwhile Mr. Evelyn’s visits continued, and when at 
last Emma could see him, I was sure that she received 
him more kindly than she ever had before. “That’ll go 
yet,” was grandma’s prediction. But her scheming was 
cut short by a letter from Emma’s father, requesting her 
immediate return. Mr. Evel^m, who found he had busi- 
ness which required his presence in Worcester, was to 
accompany her thus far. It was a sad day when she left 
us, for she was a universal favorite. Sally cried, I cried, 
and Bill either cried or made believe, for he very indus- 
triously wiped his eyes and nasal organ on his shirt sleeves ; 
besides that, things went on wrong side up generally. 
Grandma was cross — Sally was cross — and the school 
teacher was cross ; the bucket fell into the well, and the 
cows got mto the corn. I got called up at school and set 
with some hateful boys, one of whom amused himself by 


EICHARD EVELYN AND HAELEY ASHMOEE. 


147 


pricking me with a pin, and when, in self-defense, I gave 
him a good pinch, he actually yelled out — “ She keeps a 
pinchin’ me ! ” On the whole, ’twas a dreadful day, and 
when at night I threw myself exhausted upon my little 
bed, I cried myself to sleep, thinking of Cousin Emma and 
wishing she would come back. 


CHAPTER VI. 

MIKE AND SALLY. 

I HAVE spoken of SaUy, but have said nothing of Mike, 
whom, of all my father’s hired men, I liked the best. He 
it was who made the best cornstalk fiddles, and whit- 
tled out the shrillest whistles with which to drive grand- 
ma “ravin’ distracted.” He, too, it was who, on cold 
winter mornings, carried Lizzie to school in his arms, ma- 
king me forget how my fingers ached, by telling some 
exploit of his school days. 

I do not wonder that Sally liked him, and I always had an 
idea how that liking would end, but did not think it would 
be so soon. Consequently, I suspected nothing when SaH 
ly’s white dress was bleached on the grass in the clothes’ 
yard, for nearly a week. One day Billy came to me with 
a face full of wonder, saying he had just overheard Mike 
tell one of the men that he and Sally were going to be 
married in a few weeks. 

I knew now what all that bleaching was for, and why 
Sally bought so much cotton lace of pedlars. I was in 
ecstacies, too, for I had never seen any one married, but 
regretted the circumstance, whatever it might have been. 


148 


RICE CORNER. 


which prevented me from being present at mother’s mar- 
riage. Like many other children, I had been deceived 
into the belief that the marriage ceremony consisted 
mainly in leaping the broomstick, and, by myself, I had 
frequently tried the expernnent, delighted to find that I 
could jump it at almost any distance ft'orn the ground; 
but I had some misgivings as to Sally’s ability to clear 
the stick, for she was rather clumsy ; however, I should 
see the fun, for they were to be married at our house. 

A week before the time appomted, mother was taken 
very ill, which made it necessary that the wedding should 
be postponed, or take place somewhere else. To the first, 

Mike would not hear, and as good old Parson S , 

whose sermons were never more than two hours long, 
came regularly every Sunday night to preach in the school- 
house, Mike proposed that they be married there. Sally 
did not like this exactly, but grandmother, who now 
ruled the household, said it was just the thing, and ac- 
cordingly it took place there. 

The house was filled full, and those who could not ob- 
tain seats took their station near the windows. Our party 
was early, but I was three times compelled to relinquish 
my seat in favor of more distinguished persons, and I be- 
gan to think that if any one was obliged to go home for 
want of room, it would be me ; but I resolutely determined 
not to go. I’d climb the chestnut tree first ! At last I 
was squeezed on a high desk between two old ladies, 
wearing two old black bonnets, their breath sufficiently 
tinctured with tobacco smoke to be very disagreeable to 
me, whose olfactories chanced to be rather aristocratic 
than otherwise. 

To my horror. Father S concluded to give us the 

sermon before he did the bride. He was afraid some of 
his audience would leave. Accordingly there ensued a 


MIKE Am) SALLY. 


149 


prayer half an hour long, after which eight verses of a 
long metre psalm were sung to the tune of Windham. 
By this time I gave a slight sign to the two old ladies 
that I would like to move, but they merely shook their 
two black bonnets at me, telling me, in fierce whispers, 
that “ I must n’t stir in meetin’.” Must n’t stir ! I won- 
der how I could stir, squeezed in as I was, unless they 
chose to let me. So I sat bolt upright, looking straight 
ahead at a i)oint where the tips of my red shoes were vis- 
ible, for my feet were sticking straight out. 

All at once, my attention was drawn to a spider on the 
wall, who was laying a net for a fly, and in watching his 

maneuvers I forgot the lapse of time, until Father S 

had passed his sixthly and seventhly, and was driving fu- 
riously away at the eighthly. By this time the spider 
had caught the fly, whose cries sounded to me like the 
waters of the saw-mill ; the tips of my red shoes looked 
like the red berries which grew near the mine ; the two 
old ladies at my side were transformed into two tall black 
walnut trees, while I seemed to be sliding down hill. 

At this juncture, one of the old ladies moved away 
from me a foot at least, (she could have done so before, 
had she chosen to,) and I was preci2)itated oft" from the 
bench, striking my head on the sharp corner of a seat be- 
low. It was a dreadful blow which I received, making 
the blood gush from my nostrils. My loud screams 
brought matters to a focus, and the sermon to an end. 
My grandmother and one of the old ladies took me and 
the water pail out doors, where I was literally deluged ; 
at the same time they called me “ Poor girl ! Poor Mol- 
lie ! Little dear, &c.” 

But while they were attending to my bumped head, 
Mike and Sally were married, and I did n’t see it after all I 
’Twas too bad ! 


150 


RICE CORNER. 


CHAPTER VII. 

THE BRIDE. 

After Sally’s marriage, there occurred ' at our house 
an interval of quiet, enlivened occasionally by letters from 
Cousin Emma, whose health was not as much improved 
by her visit to the country as she had at first hoped it 
would be ; consequently, she proposed spending the win- 
ter south. Meantime, from Boston letters came fii'e- 
quently to Carrie Howard, and as the autumn advanced, 
things within and about her father’s house foretold some 
unusual event. Two dress-makers were hired from the 
village, and it was stated, on good authority, that among 
Carrie’s wardrobe was a white satin and an elegantly em- 
broidered merino traveling dress. 

Numerous were the surmises of Juliet and Anna as 
to who and how many would be invited to the wed- 
ding. All misgivings concerning themselves were happily 
brought to an end a week before the time, for there came 
to our house handsome cards of invitation for Juhet and 
Anna, and — I could scarcely believe my eyes — there was 
one for me too. For this I was indebted to Aunt Eunice, 
who had heard of and commiserated my misfortunes at 
Sally’s wedding. 

I was sorry that my invitation came so soon, for I had 
but little hope that the time would ever come. It did, 
however, and so did Mr. Ashmore and Agnes. As soon 
as dinner was over, I commenced my toilet, although the 
wedding was not to take place until eight that evening; 
but then I believed, as I do now, in being ready in season. 
Oh, how slowly the hours passed, and at last in perfect 
despair I watched my opportunity to set the clock for- 


THE BRIDE. 


151 


ward when no one saw me. For this purpose I put the 
footstool ill a chair, and mounting, was about to move the 
long hand, when — 

But I always was the most unfortunate of mortals, so 
’twas no wonder that at this point the chair slipped, the stool 
slipped, and I slipped. I caught at the clock to save myself ; 
consequently both clock and I came to the floor with a ter- 
rible crash. My flrst thought was for the hooks and eyes, 
which, undoubtedly, were scattered vith the fragments of 
the clock, but fortunately every hook was in its place, 
and only one eye was straightened. I draw a vail over 
the scolding which I got, and the numerous threats that 
I should stay at home. 

As the clock was broken we had no means for judging 
of the time, and thus we were among the flrst who ar- 
rived at Capt. Howard’s. This gave Juliet and Anna an 
opportunity of telling Agnes of my mishap. She laughed 
heartily, and then immediately changing the subject, she 
inquired after Cousin Emma, and when we had heard 
from her. After replying to these questions, Anna asked 
Agnes about Penoyer, and when she had seen him. 

“ Don’t mention it,” said Agnes, “ but I have a suspi- 
cion that he stopped yesterday at the depot when I did. 
I may have been mistaken, for I was looking after my 
baggage and only caught a glimpse of him. If it were 
he, his presence bodes no good.” 

“ Have you told Carrie ? ” asked J ulLet. 

“No, I have not. She seems so nervous whenever he 
is mentioned,” was Agnes’ reply. 

I thought of the obligations once referred to by Ag- 
nes, and felt that I should breathe more freely when Carrie 
really was married. Other guests now began to arrive, and 
we who had fixed long enough before the looking glass, 
repaired to the parlor below. Bill, who saw Sally married, 
G* 


152 


EICE COKNER. 


had convinced me that the story of the broomstick was a 
falsehood, so I was prepared for its absence, but I won- 
dered then, not more than I do now, why grown up peo- 
ple shouldn’t be whipped for telling untruths to children, 
as well as children for telling untruths to grown up 
people. 

The parlor was now rapidly filling, and I was in great 
danger of being thrust into the corner, where I could see 
nothing, when Aunt Eunice very benevolently drew me 
near her, saying, I should see, if no one else did. At last 
Mr. Ashmore and Carrie came. Anna can tell you ex- 
actly what she wore, but I cannot. I only know that 
she looked most beautifully, though I have a vague rec- 
ollection of fancying that in the making of her dress, 
the sleeves were forgotten entirely, and the neck very 
nearly so. 

The marriage ceremony commenced, and I listened 
breathlessly, but this did not prevent me from hearing 
some one enter the house by the kitchen door. Aunt 
Eunice heard it, too, and when the minister began to say 
something about Mrs. Ashmore, she arose and went out. 
Something had just commenced, I think they called them 
congratulations, when the crowd around the door began 
to huddle together in order to make room for some per- 
son to enter. I looked up and saw Penoyer, his glitter- 
ing teeth now partially disclosed, looking a very little 
fiendish, I thought. Carrie saw him, too, and instantly 
turned as white as the satin dress she wore, while Agnes, 
who seemed to have some suspicion of his errand, exclaimed, 
“ impudent scoundrel ! ” at the same time advancing 
forward, she laid her hand upon his arm. 

He shook it olF lightly, saying, “ Pardonnez moi, ma 
chere ; I’ve no come to trouble you.” Then turning to 


THE BEIDE. 


163 


Ashmore he said, pointing to Carrie, “ She be your wife, 
I take it ? ” 

“Yes, sir,” replied Ashmore haughtily. “Have you 
any objections ? If so they have come too late.” 

“Not von, not in the least, no sar,” said the French- 
man, bowing nearly to the floor. “ It give me one grand 
plaisir ; so now you wiU please settle von leetle bill I have 
against her ; ” at the same time he drew from his pocket 
a sheet of half-worn paper. 

Carrie, who was leaning heavily against Mr. Ashmore, 
instantly sprang forward and endeavored to snatch the 
paper, saying half imploringly, “Don’t, Penoyer, you 
know my father will pay it.” 

But Penoyer passed it to Mr. Ashmore, while Capt. 
Howard, coming forward, said, “ Pay what ? What is all 
this about ! ” 

“Only a trifle,” said Penoyer; “just a bill for giving 
your daughter musique lessons three years in Albany.” 

“ You give my daughter music lessons ? ” demanded 
Capt. Howard. 

“Oui, Monsieur, I do that same thing,” answered 
Penoyer. 

“ Oh, Carrie, Carrie,” said Capt. Howard, in his sur- 
prise, forgetting the time and place, “ why did you tell 
me that your knowledge of music you acquired yourself, 
with the assistance of your cousin, and a little help from 
her music teacher, and why, when this man was here a 
few months ago, did you not tell me he was your music 
teacher and had not been paid.” 

Bursting into tears, Carrie answered, “Forgive me, 
father, but he said he had no biU against me ; he made no 
charge.” 

“But she gave me von big, large mitten,” said the 
Frenchman, “ when she see this man, who has more 


154 


EICE COENEE. 


I’argent ; but no difference, no difference, sar, this gen- 
tleman,” bowing toward Ashmore, “ parfaitement delight- 
ed to pay it.” 

Whether he were delighted or not, he did pay it, for 
drawing from his pocket his purse, while his large black 
eyes emitted gleams of fire, he counted out the required 
amount, one hundred and twenty-five dollars ; then con- 
fronting Penoyer, he said, fiercely, “ Give me a receipt for 
this, instantly, after which I will take it upon me to show 
you the door.” 

“ Certainement, certainement, all I want is my I’argent,” 
said Penoyer. 

The money was paid, the receipt given, and then, as 
Penoyer hesitated a moment, Ashmore said, “ Are you 
waiting to be helped out, sir ? ” 

“ No, Monsieur, si vous plait, I have tree letters from 
Madame, which will give you one grande satisfaction to 
read.” Then tossing toward Ashmore the letters, with a 
malicious smile he left the house. 

Poor Carrie ! When sure that he was gone, she fainted 
away and was carried from the room. At supper, how- 
ever, she made her appearance, and after that was over, 
the guests, unopposed, left en masse. 

What efiect Penoyer’s disclosures had on Ashmore we 
never exactly knew, but when, a few days before the ^ 
young couple left home, they called at our house, we all 
fancied that Carrie was looking more thoughtful than usual, 
while a cloud seemed to be resting on Ashmore’s brow. 
The week following their marriage they left for New 
York, where they were going to reside. During the win- 
ter Carrie wrote home frequently, giving accounts of the 
many gay and fashionable parties which she attended, and 
once in a letter to Anne she wrote, “ The flattering atten- 


THE BEIDE, 


155 


tions which I receive have more than once made Ashmore 
jealous.” 

Two years from the time they were married, Mrs. Ash- 
more was brought back to her home, a pale faded inva- 
lid, worn out by constant dissipation and the care of a 
sickly baby, so poor and blue that even I couldn’t bear to 
touch it. Three days after their arrival Mr. Evelyn 
brought to us his bride. Cousin Emma, blooming with 
health and beauty. I could scarcely believe that the ex- 
ceedingly beautiful Mrs. Evelyn was the same white faced 
girl, who, two years before, had sat with me beneath the 
old grape-vine. 

The day after she came, I went with her to visit Carrie, 
who, the physicians said, was in a decline. I had not seen 
her before since her return, and on entering the sick-room, 
I was as much surprised at her haggard face, sunken eyes, 
and sallow skin, as was Mr. Ashmore at the appearance 
of Emma. “ Is it possible,” said he, coming forward, “ Is 
it possible, Emma — Mrs. Evelyn, that you h^ve entirely 
recovered ? ” 

I remembered what he had once said about “ invalid 
wives,” and I feared that the comparison he was evidently 
making would not be very favorable toward Carrie. W e 
afterwards learned, however, that he was the kindest of 
husbands, frequently walking half the night with his cry- 
ing baby, and at other times trying to soothe his nervous 
wife, who was sometimes very irritable. 

Before we left, Carrie drew Emma closely to her and 
said, “ They tell me I probably shall never get well, and 
now, while I have time, I wish to ask your forgiveness for 
the great wTong I once did you.” 

“ How ? When ? ” asked Emma, quickly, and Carrie 
continued ; “ When first I saw him who is my husband, I 
determined to leave no means untried to secure him for 


156 


BICE COKNEE. 


myself ; I knew you were engaged, but I fancied that 
your ill health annoyed him, and I played my part well. 
You know how I succeeded, but I am sure you forgive 
me, for you love Mr. Evelyn quite as well, perhaps better.” 

“ Yes, fhr better,” was Emma’s reply, as she kissed 
Carrie’s wan cheek ; then bidding her good-by, she prom- 
ised to call frequently during her stay in town. She kept 
her word, and was often accompanied by Mr. Evelyn, 
who strove faithfully and successfully, too, to lead into 
the path of peace, her whose days were well nigh ended. 

’Twas on one of those bright days in the Indian summer 
time, that Carrie at last slept the sleep that knows no 
awakening. The evening after the burial, I went in at 
Capt. Howard’s, and all the animosity I had cherished for 
Mr. Ashmore vanished, when I saw the large tear-drops, 
as they fell on the face of his motherless babe, whose 
wailing cries he endeavored in vain to hush. When the 
first snow flakes came, they fell on a little mound, where 
by the side of her mother Mr. Ashmore had laid his baby, 
Emma. 

N'o'w, side by side they are sleeping, 

In the grave’s dark, dreamless bed, 

While the willow boughs seem weeping, 

As they bend above the dead. 

And now, dear reader, after telling you that, yielding 
to the importunities of Emma’s parents, Mr. Evelyn, at 
last moved to the city, where, if I mistake not, he is still 
living, my story is finished. But do not, I pray you, 
think that these few pages contain all that I know of the 
olden time : 


Oh no, far down in memory’s well, 
Exhaustless stores remain. 

From which, perchance, some future day, 
I’ll weave a tale again. 


OE, 

RICE CORNER NUMBER TWO. 


CHAPTER I. 

THE GILBEETS. 

The spring following Carrie Howard’s death, Rice Cor- 
ner was thrown into a commotion by the astounding fact 
that Capt. Howard was going out west, and had sold his 
farm to a gentleman from the city, whose wife “ kept six 
servants, wore silk aU the time, never went inside of the 
kitchen, never saw a churn, breakfasted at ten, dined at 
three, and had supper the next day ! ” 

Such was the story which Mercy Jenkins detailed to 
us, early one Monday morning, and then, eager to com- 
municate so desirable a piece of news to others of her ac- 
quaintance, she started off, stopping for a moment as she 
passed the wash-room, to see if SaUy’s clothes “wan’t 
kinder dingy and yaller.” As soon as she was gone, the 
astonishment of our household broke forth, grandma won- 
dering why Capt. Howard wanted to go to the ends of 
the earth, as she designated Chicago, their place of desti- 
nation, and what she should do without Aunt Eunice, 
who, having been born on grandma’s wedding day, was 
very dear to her, and then her age was so easy tojceep ! 


158 


THE GILBERTS. 


But the best of friends must part, and when at Mrs. How- 
ard’s last tea-drinking mth us, I saw how badly they all 
felt, and how many tears were shed, I firmly resolved 
never to like anybody but my own folks, unless, indeed, I 
made an exception in favor of Tom Je 7 ildns^ who so often 
drew me to school on his sled, and who made such comi- 
cal looking jack-o’-lanterns out of the big yellow pumpkins. 

In reply to the numerous questions concerning Mr. Gil- 
bert, the purchaser of their farm, Mrs. Howard could only 
reply, that he was very wealthy and had got tired of liv- 
ing in the city ; adding, further, that he wore a “ mon- 
strous pair of musquitoes,” had an evil looking eye, four 
children, smoked cigars, and was a lawyer by profession. 
This last was all grandma Avanted to know about him, — 
“ that told the Avhole story,” for there never was but one 
decent lawyer, and that was Mr. Evelyn, Cousin Emma’s 
husband. Dear old lady ! — when, a few years ago, she 
heard that I, her favorite grandchild, Avas to marry one 
of the craft, she made another exception in his faA’or, say- 
ing that “ if he wasn’t all straight, Mary Avould soon make 
him so.! ” 

AVithin a short time after Aunt Eunice’s visit, she left 
Rice Corner, and on the same day wagon load after Avag- 
011 load of Mr. Gilbert’s furniture passed our house, until 
Sally declared “ there was enough to keep a tavern, and 
she didn’t see nothin’ where they’s goin’ to put it,” at the 
same time announcing her intention of “ running .,do Aim 
there after dinner, to see what was gomg on.” 

It will be remembered that Sally was now a married 
woman — “Mrs. Michael Welsh;” consequently, mother, 
AA^ho lived with her, instead of her living Avith mother, did 
not presume to interfere with her much, though she hinted 
pretty strongly that she “ always liked to see people mind 
their own affairs.” But Sally was incorrigible. The din- 


THE GILBEETS. 


159 


ner dishes were washed with a whew, I was coaxed into 
sweeping the back room — which I did, leaving the dirt 
nnder the broom behind the door — while Mrs. Welsh, 
donning a pink calico, blue shawl, and bonnet trimmed 
with dark green, started off on her prying excursion, stop- 
ping by the roadside where Mike was making fence, and 
keeping him, as grandma said, “ full half an hour by the 
clock from his work.” 

I^^^ot long after Sally’s departure, a handsome carriage, 
dra^vn by two fine bay horses, passed our house ; and, as 
the windows were down, we could plainly discern a pale, 
delicate-lookhig lady, wrapped in shawls, a tall, stylish- 
looking girl, another one about my own age, and two 
beautiful little boys. 

“ That ’s the Gilberts, I know,” said Anna. “ Oh, I ’m 
so glad Sally’s gone, for now we shall have the full par- 
ticulars ; ” and again we waited as impatiently for Sally’s 
return as we had once done before for grandma. 

At last, to our great relief, the green ribbons and blue 
shawl were descried m the distance, and ere long Sally 
was with us, ejaculating, “Oh, my — mercy me!” etc., 
thus giving us an inkling of what was to follow. “ Of all 
the sights that ever I have seen,” said she, folding up the 
blue shawl, and smoothing down the pink calico. “ There’s 
carpeting enough to cover every crack and crevice — all 
pure Bristles^ too ! ” 

Here I tittered, whereupon Sally angrily retorted, that 
“ she guessed she knew how to talk proper, if she had n’t 
studied grarmar.” 

“N’ever mind,” said Anna, “go on ; Brussels carpeting 
and what else ? ” 

“ Mercy knows what else,” answered Sally. “ I can’t 
begin to guess the names of half the things. There’s ma- 
hogany, and rosewood, and marble fixin’s, — and in Miss 


160 


THE GILBEETS, 


Gilbert’s room there’s lace curtains and silk damson 
ones — ” 

A look from Anna restrained me this time, and Sally 
continued. 

“ Mercy Jenkins is there, helpin’, and she says Mr. Gil- 
bert told ’em his wife never et a piece of salt pork in her 
life, and knew no more how bread was made than a child 
two years old.” 

“ What a simple critter she must be,” said grandma, 
while Anna asked if she saw Mrs. Gilbert, and if that taU 
ghl was her daughter. 

“Yes, I seen her,” answered Sally, “and I guess she’s 
weakly, for the minit she got into the house she lay down 
on the sofa, which Mr. Gilbert says cost seventy-five dol- 
lars. That tall, proud-lookin’ thing they call Miss Ada- 
fine, but I’U warrant you don’t catch me puttin’ on the 
Miss. I called her Adaline, and you had orto seen how 
her big eyes looked at me. Says she, at last, ‘Are you 
one of pa’s new servants ? ’ 

“‘Servants!’ says I, ‘no, indeed; I’m Mrs. Michael 
Welsh, one of your nighest neighbors.’ 

“ Then I told her that there were two nice girls lived 
in the house with me, and she ’d better get acquainted 
with ’em, riglit away ; and then with the hatefulest of all 
hateful laughs, she asked if ‘they wore glass beads and 
went barefoot.’ ” 

I fancied that neither Juliet nor Anna were greatly 
pleased at being introduced by Sally, the housemaid, to 
the elegant Adafine Gilbert, who had come to the coun- 
try with anything but a favorable impression of its inhab- 
itants. The second daughter, the one about my o’wn 
age, SaUy said they called Nellie; “and a nice, clever 
creature she is, too — not a bit stuck up like t’other one. 
Why, I do believe she’d walked every big beam in the 


THE GILBERTS. 


161 


barn before she’d been there half an hour, and the last I 
saw of her, she was coaxing a cow to lie still while she got 
upon her back ! ” 

How my heart warmed toward the romping N'ellie, and 
how I wondered if, after that beam-walking exploit, her 
hooks and eyes were all in their places! The two Httle 
boys, Sally said, were twins, Edward and Egbert, or, as 
they were familiarly called, Burt and Eddie. This was 
nearly all she had learned, if we except the fact that the 
family ate with silver forks, and drank wine after dinner. 
This last, mother pronounced heterodox, while I, who 
dearly loved the juice of the grape, and sometimes left 
finger marks on the top shelf, whither I had climbed for 
a sip from grandma’s decanter, secretly hoped I should 
some day dine with NeUie Gilbert, and drink all the wine 
I wanted, thinkmg how many times I ’d rinse my mouth 
so mother should n’t smell my breath ! 

In the course of a few weeks the affairs of the Gilbert 
family were pretty generally canvassed in Rice Corner, 
Mercy Jenkins giving it as her opinion that “ Miss Gil- 
bert was much the likeliest of the two, and that Mr. Gil- 
bert was cross, overbearing, and big feeling.” 


CHAPTER II. 

NELLIE. 

As yet I had only seen NeUie in the distance, and was 
about despairing of making her acquaintance, when acci- 
dent threw her in my way. Directly opposite our house, 
and just accross a long green meadow, was a piece of 


THE GELBEETS, 


162 

woods which belonged to Mr. Gilbert, and there, one af- 
ternoon early in May, I saw I>rellie. I had seen her there 
before, but never dared approach her ; and now I divided 
my time between watching her and a dense black cloud 
which had appeared in the west, and was fast approach- 
ing the zenith. I was just thinking how nice it would be 
if the rain should drive her to our house for shelter, when 
patter, patter came the large drops in my face ; thicker 
and faster they fell, until it seemed like a perfect deluge ; 
and through the almost blinding sheet of rain I descried 
Nellie coming toward me at a furious rate. With the 
agility of a fawn she bounded over the gate, and with the 
exclamation of, “Ain’t I wetter than a drownded rat?” 
we were perfectly well acquainted. 

It took but a short time to divest her of her dripping 
garments, and array her in some of mine, which Sally said 
“ fitted her to a T,” though I fancied she looked sadly out 
of place in my linen pantalets and long-sleeved dress. She 
was a great lover of fun and frolic, and in less than half 
an hour had “ridden to Boston” on Joe’s rocking-horse, 
turned the little wheel faster than even I dared to turn 
it, tried on grandma’s stays, and then, as a crowning feat, 
tried the rather dangerous experiment of riding down the 
garret stairs on a board ! The clatter brought up grand- 
ma, and I felt some doubts about her relishing a kind of 
play which savored so much of what she called “a racket,” 
but the soft brown eyes which looked at her so pleadingly, 
were too full of love, gentleness, and mischief to be re- 
sisted, and permission for “one more ride” was given, 
“ provided she’d promise not to break her neck.” 

Oh, what fun we had that afternoon ! What a big rent 
she tore in my gingham frock, and what a “ dear, delight- 
ful old haunted castle of a thing” she pronounced our 
house to be. Darling, darling Nellie 1 I shut my eyes, 


NELLIE. 


163 


and she comes before me again, the same bright, beauti- 
ful creature she was when I saw her first, as she was when 
I saw her for the last, last time. 

It rained until dark, and Nellie, who confidently ex- 
pected to stay all night, had whispered to me her inten- 
tion of “tying our toes together,” when there came a 
tremendous rap upon the door, and, without waiting to 
be bidden, in walked Mr. Gilbert, puffing and swelling, 
and making himself perfectly at home, in a kind of ofi*- 
hand manner, which had in it so much of condescension 
that I was disgusted, and, when sure Nellie would not 
see me, I made at him a wry face, thereby feeling greatly 
relieved! 

After managing to let mother know how expensive his 
family was, how much he paid yearly for wines and cigars, 
and how much Adaline’s education and piano had cost, 
he arose to go, saying to his daughter, “Come, Puss, 
take off those, — ahem 1 — those habiliments, and let’s be 
off!” 

Nellie obeyed, and just before she was ready to start, 
she asked, “ When I would come and spend the day with 
her ? ” 

I looked at mother, mother looked at Mr. Gilbert, Mr. 
Gilbert looked at me, and after surveying me from head 
to foot, said, spitting between every other word, “Ye-es, 
ye-es, we ’ve come to live in the country, and I suppose, 
(here he spit three successive times,) and I suppose we 
may as well be on friendly terms as any other ; so mad- 
am, (turning to mother,) I am willing to have your little 
daughter visit us occasionally.” Then adding that “ he 
would extend the same invitation to her, were it not that 
his wife was an invalid and saw no company,” he de- 
parted. 

One morning, several days afterward, a servant brought 


164 


THE GILBERTS. 


to our house a neat little note from Mrs. Gilbert, asking 
mother to let me spend the day with Nellie. After some 
consultation between motlier and grandma, it w'as deci- 
ded that I might go, and in less than an hour I was 
dressed and on the road, my hair braided so tightly in 
my neck that the little red bumps of flesh set up here 
and there, like currants on a brown earthen platter. 

Nellie did not wait to receive me formally, but came 
running do’^vn the road, telling me that Robin had made 
a swing in the barn, and that we would play there most 
all day, as her mother was sick, and Adaline, who occu- 
pied two-thirds of the house, would n’t let us come near 
her. This Adaline was to me a very formidable person- 
age. Hitherto I had only caught glimpses of her, as with 
long skirts and waving plumes she sometimes dashed past 
our house on horseback, and it was with great trepida- 
tion that I now followed Nellie into the parlor, where she 
told me her sister was. 

“ Adaline, this is my little friend,” said she ; and Ada- 
line replied, “ How do you do, little friend f ” 

My cheeks tingled, and for the first time, raising my 
eyes, I found myself face to face with the haughty belle. 
She was very tall and queen-like in her figure, and though 
she could hardly be called handsome, there was about her 
an air of elegance and refinement which partially compen- 
sated for the absence of beauty. That she was proud, 
one could see from the glance of her large black eyes and 
the curl of her lip. Coolly surveying me for a moment, 
as she would any other curious specimen, she resumed 
-her book, never speaking to me again, except to ask, 
when she saw me gazing wonderingly around the splen- 
didly furnished room, “ if I supposed I could remember 
every article of furniture, and give a faithful report.” 

I thought I was insulted when she called me “ little 


NELLIE. 


1C5 


friend,” and now, feeling sure of it, I tartly replied, that 
“ if I couldn’t, she, perhaps, might lend me paper and 
pencil, with which to write them down.” 

“ Original, truly,” said she, again poring over her book. 

ISTellie, who had left me for a moment, now returned, 
bidding me come and see her mother, and passing through 
the long hall, I was soon in Mrs. Gilbert’s room, which 
was as tastefully, though perhaps not quite so richly, fur- 
nished as the parlor. Mrs. Gilbert was lying upon a sofa, 
and the moment I looked upon her, the love which I had 
so freely given the daughter, was shared with the moth- 
er, in whose pale, sweet face, and soft, brown eyes, I saw 
a strong resemblance to Nellie. She was attired in a 
rose-colored morning-gown, which flowed open in front, 
disclosing to view a larger quantity of rich French em- 
broidery than I had ever before seen. 

Many times during the day, and many times since, 
have I wondered what made her marry, and if she really 
loved, the bearish looking man who occasionally stalked 
into the room, smoking cigars and talking very loudly, 
when he knew how her head was throbbing with pain. 

I had eaten but little breakfast that morning, and ver- 
ily I thought I should famish before their dinner hour ar- 
rived ; and when at last it came, and I saw the table glit- 
tering with silver, I felt many misgivmgs as to my abil- 
ity to acquit myself creditably. But by dint of watching 
Nellie, doing just what she did, and refusing just what 
she’ refused, I managed to get through Tvith it tolerably 
well. For once, too, in my life, I drank all the wine I 
wanted ; the result of which was, that long before sun- 
set I went home, crying and vomiting with the sick head- 
ache, which Sally said “ served me right ; ” at the same 
time hinting her belief that I was slightly intoxicated ! 


166 


THE GILBERTS. 


CHAPTER III. 

THE HAUNTED HOUSE. 

Down our long, green lane, and at the farther extrem- 
ity of the narrow foot-path which led to the “ old mine,” 
was another path or wagon road, which wound along 
among the fern hushes, under the chestnut trees, across 
the hemlock swamp, and up to a grassy ridge which over- 
looked a small pond, said, of course^ to have no bottom. 
Fully crediting this story, and knowing, moreover, that 
China was opposite to us, I had often taken down my 
atlas and hunted through that ancient empire, in hopes 
of finding a corresponding sheet of water. Failing to do 
so, I had made one with my pencil, writing against it, 
“ Cranberry Pond,” that bemg the name of its American 
brother. 

Just above the pond on the grassy ridge, stood an old, 
dilapidated building, which had long borne the name of 
the “ haunted house.” I never knew whether this title 
was given it on account of its proximity to the “old 
mine,” or because it stood near the very spot where, 
years and years ago, the “bloody Indians” pushed those 
cart loads of burning hemp against the doors “of the 
only remaining house in Quaboag” — ^for which see Good- 
rich’s Child’s History, page somewhere toward the 

commencement. I only know that ’twas called the 
“ haunted house,” and that, for a long time, no one would 
live there, on account of the rapping, dancing, and cut- 
ting up generally, which was said to prevail there, partic- 
ularly in the west room, the one overhung by creepers 
and grape-vines. 

Three or four years before our story opens, a widow 


THE HAUNTED HOUSE. 


167 


lady, Mrs. Hudson, with her only daughter, Mabel, ap- 
peared in our neighborhood, hiring the “ haunted house,” 
and, in spite of the neighbors’ predictions to the contrary, 
living there quietly and peaceably, unharmed by ghost or 
goblin. At first, Mrs. Hudson was looked upon with dis- 
trust, and even a league with a certain old fellow was 
hinted at ; but as she seemed to be well disposed, kind, 
and affable toward aU, this feeling gradually wore away, 
and now she was universally liked, while Mabel, her 
daughter, was a general favorite. For two years past, 
Mabel had worked in the Fiskdale factory a portion of 
the time, going to school the remainder of the year. She 
was fitting herself for a teacher, and as the school in onr 
district was small, the trustees had this summer kindly 
offered it to her. This arrangement delighted me ; for, 
next to Nellie Gilbert, I loved Mabel Hudson best of 
anybody ; and I fancied, too, that they looked alike, but 
of course it was all fancy. 

Mrs. Hudson was a tailoress, and the day following my 
visit to Mr. Gilbert’s I was sent by mother to take her 
some work. I found her in the little porch, her white 
cap-border falling over her placid face, and her wide 
checked apron coming nearly to the bottom of her dress. 
Mabel was there, too, and as she arose to receive me, 
something about her reminded me of Adaline Gilbert. I 
could not tell what it was, for Mabel was very beautiful, 
and beside her Adaline would be plain ; stfil, there was a 
resemblance, either in voice or manner, and this it was, 
perhaps, which made me so soon mention the Gilberts, 
and my visit to them the day previous. 

Instantly Mrs. Hudson and Mabel exchanged glances, 
and I thought the face of the former grew a shade paler; 
still, I may have been mistaken, for, in her usual tone of 
voice, she began to ask me numberless questions concern- 


1G8 


THE GILBERTS. 


ing the family, which seemed singular, as she was not re- 
markable for curiosity. But it suited me. I loved to 
talk then not less than I do now, and in a few minutes I 
had told all I knew, and more, too, most likely. 

At last, Mrs. Hudson asked about Mr. Gilbert, and how 
I liked him. 

“Not a bit,” said I. “He’s the hatebilest, crossest, 
big-feelingest man I ever saw, and Adaline is just like 
him ! ” 

Had I been a little older I might, perhaps, have won- 
dered at the crimson flush which my hasty words brought 
to Mrs. Hudson’s cheek, but I did not notice it then, and 
thinking she was, of course, highly entertained, I contin- 
ued to talk about Mr. Gilbert and Adaline, in the last of 
whom Mabel seemed the most interested. Of Nellie I 
spoke with the utmost affection, and when Mrs. Hudson 
expressed a wish to see her, I promised, if possible, to 
bring her there ; then, as I had already outstaid the time 
for which permission had been given, I tied on my sun- 
bonnet and started for home, revolving the ways and 
means by which I should keep my promise. 

This proved to be a very easy matter ; for, mthin a 
few days, Nellie came to return my visit, and as mother 
had other company, she the more readily gave us permis- 
sion to go where we pleased. Nellie had a perfect pas- 
sion for ghost and witch stories, saying, though, that “ she 
never liked to have them explained — she’d rather they’d 
be left m solemn mystery ; ” so when I told her of the 
“old mine” and the “ haunted house,” she immediately 
expressed a desire to see them. Hiding our bonnets un- 
der our aprons, the better to conceal our intentions from 
sister Lizzie, who, we fancied, had serious thoughts of 
tagging^ we sent her up stairs in quest of something 
which we knew was not there, and then away we scam- 


THE HAUNTED HOUSE. 


169 


pered do'wn the green lane and across the pasture, drop- 
ping once into some alders as Lizzie’s yellow hair became 
visible on the fence at the foot of the lane. Our con- 
sciences smote us a little, but we kept still until she re- 
tunied to the house ; then, continuhig our way, we soon 
came in sight of the mine, which Nellie determined to 
explore. 

It was in vain that I tried to dissuade her from the at- 
tempt. She was resolved, and stationing myself at a safe 
distance, I waited while she scrambled over stones, sticks, 
logs, and bushes, until she finally disappeared in the cave. 
Ere long, however, she returned with soiled pantalets, torn 
apron, and scratched face, saying that “ the mine was no- 
thing in the world but a hole in the ground, and a mighty 
little one at that.” After this, I didn’t know but I would 
sometime venture in, but for fear of what might happen, 
I concluded to choose a time when I had ’nt run away 
from Liz ! 

When I presented Nellie to Mrs. Hudson, she took 
both her hands m hers, and, greatly to my surprise, kissed 
her on both cheeks. Then she walked hastily into the 
next room, but not until I saw something fall from her 
eyes, which I am sure were tears. 

“Funny, isn’t it ? ” said Nellie, looking wonderingly at 
me. “ I don’t know whether to laugh, or what.” 

Mabel now came in, and though she manifested no par- 
ticular emotion, she was exceedingly kind to Nellie, ask- 
ing her many questions, and sometimes smoothing her 
brown curls. When Mrs. Hudson agam appeared, she 
was very calm, but I noticed that her eyes constantly 
rested upon Nellie, who, with Mabel’s gray kitten in her 
lap, was seated upon the door-step, the very image of 
childish innocence and beauty. Mrs. Hudson urged us to 
stay to tea, but I declined, knowing that there was com- 


170 


THE GILBEETS, 


pany at home, with three kinds of cake, besides cookies, 
for supper. So bidding her good-by, and promising to 
come again, we started homeward, where we found the 
ladies discussing their green tea and making large inroads 
upon the three kinds of cake. 

One of them, a Mrs. Thompson, was gifted with the art 
of fortune-telling, by means of tea-grounds, and when 
Nellie and I took our seats at the table, she kindly offered 
to see what was in store for us. She had frequently told 
my fortune, each time managing to fish up a freckle- 
faced boy, so nearly resembling her grandson, my partic- 
ular aversion, that I did n’t care to hear it again. But 
with Nellie ’twas all new, and after a great whii*ling of 
tea grounds and staining of mother’s best table-cloth, she 
passed her cup to Mrs. Thompson, confidently whispering 
to me that she guessed she’d tell her something about 
Willie Raymond, who lived in the city, and who gave her 
the little cornelian ring which she wore. With the ut- 
most gravity Mrs. Thompson read off the past and pres- 
ent, and then peering far into the future, she suddenly 
exclaimed, “ Oh my I there’s a gulf, or something, before 
you, and you are going to tumble into it headlong ; don’t 
ask me anything more.” 

I never did and never shall believe in fortune-telling, 
much less in Granny Thompson’s “ turned up cups,” but 
years after, I thought of her prediction with regard to 
Nellie. Poor, poor Nellie I 


JEALOUSY. 


171 


CHAPTER IV. 

JEALOUSY. 

On the first Monday in June our school commenced, 
and long before breakfast Lizzie and I were dressed, and 
had turned inside out the little cupboard over the fire- 
place, where our books were kept during vacation. 
Breakfast being over, we deposited in our dinner-basket 
the whole of a custard pie, and were about starting off, 
when mother said “ we should n’t go a step until half past 
eight,” adding further, that “we must put that pie back, 
for ’twas one she’d saved for their own dinner.” 

Lizzie pouted, while I cried, and taking my bonnet, I 
repaired to the “ great rock,” where the sassafras, black- 
berries, and black snakes grew. Here I sat for a long 
time, thinking if I ever did grow up and get married, (I 
was sure of the latter,) I’d have all the custard pie I could 
cat, for once ! In the midst of my reverie a footstep 
sounded near, and looking up I saw before me Nellie Gil- 
bert, with her satchel of books on her arm, and her sun- 
bonnet hanging down her back, after the fashion in which 
I usually wore mine. In reply to my look of inquiry, she 
said her father had concluded to let her go to the district 
school, though he didn’t expect her to learn anything but 
“ slang terms and ill manners.” 

By this time it was half past eight, and, together with 
Lizzie, we repaired to the school-house, where we found 
assembled a dozen girls and as many boys, among whom 
was Tom Jenkins. Tom was a great admirer of beauty, 
and hence I could never account for the preference he 
had hitherto shown for me, whom my brothers called 
“bung-eyed” and Sally “raw-boned.” He, how;ever, 


172 


THE GILBERTS. 


didn’t think so. My eyes, he said, were none too large, 
and many a night had he carried home my books for me, 
and many a morning had he brought me nuts and raisins, 
to say nothing of the time when I found in my desk a lit- 
tle note, which said , but everybody who’s been to 

school, knows what it said ! 

Taking it all round, we were as good as engaged; so you 
can judge what my feelings were when, before the night 
of ISTellie’s first day at school, I saw Tom Jenkins giving 
her an orange, which I had every reason to think was ori- 
ginally intended for me ! I knew very well that Nellie’s 
brown curls and eyes had done the mischief ; and though 
I did not love her the less, I blamed him the more for his 
fickleness, for only a week before he had praised my eyes, 
calling them a “ beautiful indigo blue,” and all that. I 
was highly incensed, and when on our way from school 
he tried to speak good-humoredly, I said, “ I’d thank you 
to let me alone ! I don’t like you, and never did ! ” 

He looked sorry for a minute, but soon forgot it all in 
talking to Nellie, who, after he had left us, said “he was 
a cleverish kmd of boy, though he couldn’t begin with 
William Raymond.” After that I was very cool toward 
Tom, who attached himself more and more to N ellie, say- 
ing “ she had the handsomest eyes he ever saw ; ” and, 
indeed, I think it chiefly owing to those soft, brown, 
dreamy eyes, that I am not now “Mrs. Tom Jenkins, of 
Jenkinsville,” a place way out west, whither Tom and his 
mother have migrated ! 

One day Nellie was later to school than usual, giving 
as a reason that theii* folks had company — a Mr. Sher- 
wood and his mother, from Hartford ; and adding, that 
“ if I’d never tell anybody as long as I lived and breathed, 
she’d tell me something.” 

Of course I promised, and then Nellie told me how she 


JEALOtTST. 


173 


guessed that Mr. Sherwood, who was rich and handsome, 
liked Adaline. “Any way, Adaline likes him,” said she ; 
“ and oh, she ’s so nice and good when he ’s around. I 
ain’t ‘Nell, you hateful thing’ then, hut I’m ‘Sister Nel- 
lie.’ They are going to ride this morning, and perhaps 
they’ll go by here. — There they are, now ! ” and looking 
toward the road, I saw Mr. Sherwood and Adaline Gilbert 
on horseback, riding leisurely past the school-house. She 
was nodding to Nellie, but he was looking intently at Ma- 
bel, who was sitting near the window. I know he asked 
Adaline something about her, for I distinctly heard a part 
of her reply — “a poor factory-girl,” and Adaline’s head 
tossed scornfully, as if that were a sufficient reason why 
Mabel should be despised. 

Mr. Sherwood evidently did not think so, for the next 
day he walked by alone, — and the next day he did the 
same, this time bringing with him a book, and seating 
himself in the shadow of a chestnut tree not far from the 
school-house. The moment school was out, he arose and 
came forward, inquiring for Nellie, who, of course, intro- 
duced him to Mabel. The three then walked on together, 
while Tom Jenkins staid in the rear with me. Wondering 
what I wanted to act so for ; “ couldn’t a feller like more 
than one girl if he wanted to ? ” 

“Yes, I s’posed a feller could, though I didn’t know, 
nor care ! ” 

Tom made no reply, but whittled away upon a bit of 
shingle, which finally assumed the shape of a heart, and 
which I afterward found in his desk with the letter “N” 
written upon it, and then scratched out. When at last 
we reached our house, Mr. Sherwood asked Nellie “where 
that old mine and saw-mill were, of which she had told 
him so much.” 

“Right on Miss Hudson’s way home,” said Nellie. 


174 


THE GILBERTS. 


“ Let’s walk along with her ; ” and the next moment Mr. 
Sherwood, Mabel, and Nellie were in the long, green 
lane which led down to the saw-mill. 

Oh, how Adaline stormed when she heard of it, and 
how sneeringly she spoke to Mr. Sherwood of the “ fac- 
tory girl,” insinuating that the bloom on her cheek was 
painty and the lily on her brow powder! But he prob- 
ably did not believe it, for almost every day he passed 
the school-house, generally managing to speak with Ma- 
bel ; and once he went all the way home with her, stay- 
ing ever so long, too, for I watched until ’twas pitch dark, 
and he hadn’t got back yet ! 

In a day or two he went home, and I thought no more 
about him, until Tom, who had been to the post-ofl5ce, 
brought Mabel a letter, which made her turn red and 
white alternately, until at last she cried. She was very 
absent-minded the remainder of that day, letting us do as 
we pleased, and never in my life did I have a better time 
“carrying on” than I did that afternoon when Mabel re- 
ceived her first letter from Mr. Sherwood. 


CHAPTER V. 

NEW RELATIONS. 

About six weeks after the close of Mabel’s school, we 
were one day startled with the intelligence that she was 
going to be married, and to Mr. Sherwood, too. He had 
become tired of the fashionable ladies of his acquaintance, 
and when he saw how pure and artless Mabel was, he im- 


NirW RELATIONS. 


175 


mediately became interested in her ; and at last overcom- 
ing all feelings of pride, he had offered her his hand, and 
had been accepted. At first we could hardly credit the 
story ; but when Mrs. Hudson herself confirmed it, we 
gave it up, and again I wondered if I should be invited. 
All the nicest and best chestnuts which I could find, to 
say nothing of the apples and butternuts, I carried to her, 
not without my reward either, for when invitations came 
to us, I was included with the rest. Our family were the 
only invited guests, and I felt no fears, this time, of being 
hidden by the crowd. 

Just before the ceremony commenced, there was the 
sound of a heavy footstep upon the outer porch, a loud 
knock at the door, and then into the room came Mr. Gil- 
bert ! He seemed slightly agitated, but not one-half so 
much as Mrs. Hudson, who exclaimed, “ William, my son, 
why are you here ? ” 

“I came to witness my sister’s bridal,” was the 
answer; and turning toward the clergyman, he said, 
somewhat authoritatively, “Do not delay for me, sir. 
Go on.” 

There was a movement in the next room, and then the 
bridal party entered, both starting with surprise as they 
saw Mr. Gilbert. Very beautiful did Mabel look, as she 
stood up to take upon herself the marriage vow, not a 
syllable of which did one of us hear. We were thmking 
of Mr. Gilbert, and the strange words, “my son” and “my 
sister.” 

When it was over, and Mabel was Mrs. Sherwood, Mr, 
Gilbert approached Mrs. Hudson, saying, “ Come, mother, 
let me lead you to the bride.” 

With an impatient gesture she waved him off, and go- 
ing alone to her daughter, threw her arms around her 
neck, sobbing convulsively. There was an awkward si- 


176 


THE GILBERTS. 


lence, and then Mr. Gilbert, thinking he was called upon 
for an explanation, arose, and addressing himself mostly 
to Mr. Sherwood, said, “ I suppose what has transpired 
here to night seems rather strange, and will undoubtedly 
furnish the neighborhood with gossip for more than a 
week, but they are welcome to canvass whatever I do. I 
can’t help it if I was born with an unusual degree of pride ; 
neither can I help feeling mortified, as I many times did, 
at my family, particularly after she,” glancing at his 
mother, “ married the man whose name she bears.” 

Here Mrs. Hudson lifted up her head, and coming to 
Mr. Gilbert’s side, stood proudly erect, while he continued: 
“ She would tell you he was a good man, but I hated him, 
and swore never to enter the house while he lived. I 
went away, took care of myself, grew rich, married into 
one of the first families in Hartford, and, — and — ” 

Here he paused, and his mother, continuing the sen- 
tence, added, “ and grew ashamed of your own mother, 
who many a time went without the comforts of life that 
you might be educated. You were always a proud, way- 
■ward boy, William, but never did I thmk you would do 
as you have done. You have treated me with utter neg- 
lect, never allowing your wife to see me, and when I once 
proposed visiting you in Hartford, you asked your broth- 
er, now dead, to dissuade me from it, if possible, for you 
could not introduce me to your acquaintances as your 
mother. H ever do you speak of me to your children, who, 
if they know they have a grandmother, little dream that 
she lives within a mile of their father’s dwelling. One of 
them I have seen, and my heart yearned toward her as it 
did toward you when first I took you in my arms, my 
first-born baby ; and yet, William, I thank heaven there 
is in her sweet face no trace of her father’s features. This 
may sound harsh, unmotherly, but greatly have I been 


NEW RELATIONS. 


Ill 


sinned against, and now, just as a brighter day is dawn- 
ing upon me, why have you come here ! Say, William, 
why ? ” 

• By the time Mrs. Hudson had finished, nearly all in the 
room were weeping. Mr. Gilbert, however, seemed per- 
fectly indifferent, and with the most provoking coolness 
replied, “ I came to see my fair sister married— to con- 
gratulate her upon an alliance which will bring us upon a 
more equal footing.” 

^‘You greatly mistake me, sir, “said Mr. Sherwood, 
turning haughtily toward Mr. Gilbert, at the same time 
drawing Mabel nearer to him ; “ you greatly mistake me, 
if, after what I have heard, you think I would wish for 
your acquaintance. If my wife, when poor and obscure, 
was not worthy of your attention, you certainly are not 
now worthy of hers, and it is my request that our inter- 
course should end here.” 

Mr. Gilbert muttered something about “extenuating 
circumstances,” and “ the whole not being told,” but no 
one paid him any attention ; and at last, snatching up his 
hat, he precipitately left the house, I sending after him a 
hearty good riddance, and mentally hoping he would 
measure his length in the ditch winch he must pass on his 
way across hemlock swamp. 

The next morning Mr. and Mrs. Sherwood departed on 
their bridal tour, intending, on their return, to take their 
mother with them to the city. Several times during their 
absence I saw Mr. Gilbert, either going to or returning 
from the “ haunted house,” and I readily guessed he was 
trying to talk his mother over, for nothing could be more 
mortifying than to be cut by the Sherwoods, who were 
among the first in Hartford. Afterward, greatly to my 
satisfaction, I heard that though, mother-like, Mrs. Hud- 
son had forgiven her son, Mr. Sherwood ever treated him 

12 


178 


TH® GILBEETS. 

with a cool haughtiness, which effectually kept him at a 
distance. 

Once, indeed, at Mabel’s earnest request, Mrs. Gilbert 
and ISTellie were invited to visit her, and as the former 
was too feeble- to accomplish the journey, Nellie went 
alone, staying a long time, and torturing her sister on her 
return with a glowing account of the elegantly furnished 
house, of which Adaline had once hoped to be the proud 
mistress. 

For several years after Mabel’s departure from Rice 
Corner, nothing especial occurred in the Gilbert family, 
except the marriage of Adaline with a rich bachelor, who-^ 
must have been many years older than her father, for he 
colored his whiskers, wore false teeth and a mg, besides 
having, as Nellie declared, a wooden leg ! For the truth 
of this last I will not vouch, as Nellie’s assertion was only 
founded upon the fact of her having once looked through 
the keyhole of his door, and espied standing by his bed 
something which looked like a cork leg, but which might 
have been a boot ! What Adaline saw in him to like, I 
could never guess. I suppose, however, that she only 
looked at his rich gilding, which covered a multitude of 
defects. 

Immediately after the wedding, the happy pair started 
for a two years’ tour in Europe, where the youthful bride 
so enraged her bald-headed lord by flirting with a mus- 
tached Frenchman, that in a fit of anger the old man 
picked up his goods, chattels, and wife, and returned to 
New York within three months of his leaving it ! 


POOR, POOR NELLIE. 


179 


CHAPTER VI. 

POOR, POOR NELLIE. 

And now, in the closing chapter of this bnef sketch of 
the Gilberts, I come to the saddest part, the fate of poor 
Hellie, the dearest playmate my childhood ever knew ; 
she whom the lapse of years ripened into a graceful, beau- 
tiful girl, loved by everybody, even by Tom Jenkins, 
whose boyish affection had grown with his growth and 
strengthened with his strength. 

And now Nellie was the affianced bride of William 
Raymond, who had replaced the little cornelian with 
the engagement ring. At last the rumor reached Tom 
Jenkins, awaking him from the sweetest dream lie had 
ever known. He could not ask Nellie if it were true, 
so he came to me ; and when I saw how he grew pale and 
trembled, I felt that Nellie was not altogether blameless. 
But he breathed no word of censure ^against her ; and 
when, a year or two afterward, I saw her given to Wil- 
liam Raymond, I knew that the love of two hearts was 
hers ; the one to cherish and watch over her, the other to 
love and worship, silently, secretly, as a miser worships 
his hidden treasure. 

^ ^ 

The bridal was over. The farewells were over, and 
Nellie had gone, — gone from the home whose sunlight 
she had made, and which she had left forever. Sadly the 
pale, sick mother wept, and mourned her absence, listen- 
ing in vain for the light foot-fall and soft, ringing voice she 
would never hear again. 


180 


THE GILBERTS. 


Three weeks had passed away, and then, far and near, 
the papers teemed with accounts of the horrible Norwalk 
catastrophe, which desolated many a home, and wrung 
from many a heart its choicest treasure. Side by side they 
found them — Nellie and her husband — the light of her 
brown eyes quenched forever, and the pulses of his heart 
still in death ! 

I was present when they told the poor invalid of her 
loss, and even now I seem to hear the bitter, wailing cry 
which broke from her white lips, as she begged them “ to 
unsay what they had said ; and tell her N ellie was not 
dead — that she would come back again.” 

It could not be. Nellie would never return ; and in six 
week’s time the broken-hearted mother was at rest with 
her child. 


iLND 

ITS CONSEQUENCES. 
CHAPTER I. 

NIGHT BEFORE THANKSGIVING; 

“ Oh, I do hope it will be pleasant to-morrow,” said 
Lizzie Dayton, as on the night before Thanksgiving she 
stood at the parlor window, watching a dense mass of 
clouds, behind which the sun had lately gone to his nightly 
rest. 

“ I hope so, too, said Lucy, coming forward, and join- 
ing her sister ; but then it isn’t likely it will be. There has 
been a big circle around the moon these three nights, 
and, besides that, I never knew it fail to storm when I 
was particularly anxious that it should be pleasant and 
the indignant beauty pouted very becomingly at the in- 
sult so frequently offered by that most capricious of all 
things, the weather. 

“Thee shouldn’t talk so, Lucy,” said Grandma Day- 
ton, who was of Quaker descent, at the same time hold- 
ing up between herself and the window the long stocking 
which she was knitting. “Doesn’t thee know that when 
thee is finding fault with the weather, thee finds fault 
with Him who made the weather ? ” 

“ I do wish, grandma, answered Lucy, “ that I could 


182 


THE THANKSGIVING PARTY, 


ever say anything which did not furnish you with a text 
from which to preach me a sermon.” 

Grandma did not rejdy directly to this rather uncivil 
speech, hut she continued : “ I don’t see how the weather 
will hurt thee, if it’s the party thee is thinking of, for Mr. 
Graham’s is only ten rods or so from here.” 

“ I’m not afraid I can’t go,” answered Lucy ; ‘‘ but you 
know as well as I, that if the wind blows enough to put 
out a candle, father is so old-maidish as to think Lizzie 
and I must wear thick stockings and dresses, and I 
shouldn’t wonder if he insisted on flannel wrappers ! ” 
“Well,” answered grandma, “ I think myself it will be 
very imprudent for Lizzie, in her present state of health, 
to expose her neck and arms. Thy poor marm died with 
consumption when she wasn’t much older than thee is. 
Let me see, — she was twenty-three the day she died, and 

thee was twenty-two in Sep ” 

“ For heaven’s sake, grandmother,” interrupted Lucy, 
“ don’t continually remind me of my age, and tell me how 
much younger mother was when she was married. I can’t 
help it if I am twenty-two, and not married or engaged 
either. But I will be both, before I am a year older.” 

So saying, she quitted the aj^artment, and repaired to 
her own room. 

Ere we follow her thither, we will introduce both her 
• and her sister to our readers. , Lucy and Lizzie were the 
only children of Mr. Dayton, a wealthy, intelligent, and 
naturally social man, the early death of whose idolized, 
beautiful wife had thrown a deep gloom over his spiiits, 
which time could never entirely dispel. It was now sev- 
enteen years since, a lonely, desolate widower, at the 
dusky twilight hour he had drawn closely to his bosom 
his motherless children, and thought that but for them he 
would gladly have lain down by her whose home waa 


NIGHT BEFORE THANKSGIVING. 


183 


now in heaven. His acquaintances spoke lightly of his 
grief, saying he would soon get over it and marry again. 
They were mistaken, for he remained single, his widowed 
mother supplying to his daughters the place of their lost 
parent. 

In one thing was Mr. Dayton rather peculiar. Owing 
to the death of his wife, he had always been in the habit 
of dictating to his daughters in various small matters, 
such as dress, and so forth, about which fathers seldom 
trouble themselves. And even now he seemed to forget 
that they were children no longer, and often interfered in 
their plans in a way exceedingly annoying to Lucy, the 
eldest of the girls, who was now twenty-two, and was as 
proud, selfish, and self-willed as she was handsome and 
accomplished. Old maids she held in great abhorrence, 
and her great object in life was to secure a wealthy and 
distinguished husband. Hitherto she had been unsuccess- 
ful, for the right one had not yet appeared. Now, how- 
ever, a new star was dawning on her horizon, in the per- 
son of Hugh St. Leon, of New Orleans. His fame had 

preceded liiin, and half the village of S were ready 

to do homage to the proud millionaire, who would make 
his first appearance at the thanksgiving party. This, then, 
was the reason why Lucy felt so anxious to be becom- 
ingly dressed, for she had resolved upon a conquest, and 
she felt sure of success. She knew she was beautiful. 
Her companions told her so, her mirror told her so, and 
her sweet sister Lizzie told her so, more than twenty 
times a day. 

Lizzie was four years younger than her sister, and 
wholly unlike her, both in personal appearance and dispo- 
sition. She had from childhood evinced a predisposition 
to the disease which had consigned her mother to an early 
grave. On her fair, soft cheek the rose of health had 


184 


THE THANKSGIVING PARTY. 


never bloomed, and in the light which shone from her 
clear hazel eye, her fond father read, but too clearly, 
“ passing away, — ^passing away.” 

If there was in Lucy Dayton’s selfish nature any re- 
deeming quality, it was that she possessed for her frail 
young sister a love amounting almost to adoration. 
Years before, she had trembled as she thought how 
soon the time might come when for her sister’s merry 
voice she would listen in vam ; but as month after month 
and year after year went by, and still among them Lizzie 
staid, Lucy forgot her fears, and dreamed not that ere 
long one chair would be vacant, — that Lizzie would be 
gone. 

Although so much younger than her sister, Lizzie, for 
more than a year, had been betrothed to Harry Graham, 
whom she had known from childhood. I^ow, between 
herself and him the broad Atlantic rolled, nor would he 
return until the coming autumn, when, with her father’s 
consent, Lizzie would be all his own. 

Alasl alas! ere autumn came 
How many hearts were weeping, 

For her, who ’neath the willow’s shade. 

Lay sweetly, calmly sleeping. 


CHAPTER H. 

THANKSGIVING DAT. 

Slowly the feeble light of a stormy morning broke 
over the village of S . Lucy’s fears had been veri- 

fied, for Thanksgiving’s davm was ushered in by a fierce 
driving storm. Thickly from the blackened clouds the 


THANKSGIVING DAY. 


185 


feathery flakes had fallen, until the earth, far and near, 
was covered by an unbroken mass of white, untrodden 
snow. 

Lucy had been awake for a long time, listening to the 
sad song of the wind, which swept howling by the case- 
ment. At length, with an impatient frown at the snow, 
which covered the window-pane, she turned on her pil- 
low, and tried again to sleep. Her slumbers, however, 
were soon disturbed by her sister, who arose, and putting 
aside the curtain, looked out upon the storm, saying, half 
aloud, “ Oh, I am sorry, for Lucy will be disappointed.” 

“ I disappointed ! ” repeated Lucy ; “ now, Lizzie, why 
not own it, and say you are as much provoked at the 
weather as I am, and wish this horrid storm had staid in 
the icy caves of Greenland ? ” 

“ Because,” answered Lizzie, “ I really care but little 
about the party. You know Harry will not be there, 
and besides that, the old, ugly pain has come back to 
my side this morning ; ” and even as she spoke, a low, 
hacking cough fell on Lucy’s ear like the echo of a dis- 
tant knell. 

Lucy raised herself up, and leaning on her elbow looked 
earnestly at her sister, and fancied, (’twas not all fancy,) 
that her cheeks had grown thinner and her brow whiter 
within a few weeks. Lizzie proceeded with her toilet, 
although she was twice obliged to stop on account of “ the 
ugly pain,” as she called it. 

“ Hurry, sister,” said Lucy, “ and you vill feel better 
when you get to the warm parlor.” 

Lizzie thought so, too, and she accelerated her move- 
ments as much as possible. Just as she was leaving the 
room, Lucy detained her a moment by passing her arm 
caressingly around her. Lizzie well knew that some fa- 


186 


THE THANKSGIVING PARTY. 


vor was wanted, and she said, “Well, what is it, Lucy ? 
What do you wish me to give you ? ” 

“Nothing, nothing,” answered Lucy, “but do not say 
anything to father about the pain in your side, for fear 
he will keep you at home, and, worse than all, make me 
stay, too.” 

Lizzie gave the required promise, and then descended 
to the breakfast parlor, where she found her grandmother, 
and was soon joined by her sister and father. After the 
usual salutation of the morning, the latter said, “ There 
is every prospect of our being alone to-day, for the snow 
is at least a foot and a half deep, and is drifting every 
moment.” 

“ But, father,” said Lucy, “ that will not prevent Lizzie 
and me from going to the party to-night.” 

“ You mean, if I choose to let you go, of course,” an- 
swered Mr. Dayton. 

“ Why,” quickly returned Lucy, “ you cannot think of 
keeping us at home. It is only distant a few rods, and 
we wiU wrap up well.” 

“ I have no objections to your going,” replied Mr. 
Dayton, “ provided you dress suitably for such a night.” 

“ Oh, father,” said Lucy,* “ you cannot be capricious 
enough to wish us to be bundled up in bags.” 

“ I care but little what dress you wear,” answered Mr. 
Dayton, “ if it has what I consider necessary appendages, 
viz: sleeves and waist. 

The tears glittered in Lucy’s bright eyes, as she said, 
“ Our party dresses are at Miss Carson’s, and she is to 
send them home this morning.” 

“ Wear them, then,” answered Mr. Dayton, “provided 
they possess the qualities I spoke of, for without those 
you cannot go out on such a night as this will be.” 


THANKSGIVING DAY. 


187 


Lucy knew that her dress was minus the sleeves, and 
that her father would consider the waist a mere apology 
for one, so she hurst into tears and said, rather angrily, 
“ I had rather stay at home than go rigged out as you 
would hke to have me.” 

“Very well; you can stay at home,” was Mr. Dayton’s 
quiet reply. 

In a few moments he left the room, and then Lucy’s 
wrath burst forth unrestrainedly. She called her father 
all sorts of names, such as “ an old granny, — an old fidg- 
et,” and finished up her list with what she thought the 
most odious appellation of all, “ an old maid.” 

In the midst of her tirade the door bell rang. It was 
the boy from Miss Carson’s, and he brought the party 
dresses. Lucy’s thoughts now took another channel, and 
while admiring her beautiful embroidered muslin and rich 
white satin skirt, she forgot that she could not wear it. 
Grandma was certainly unfortunate in her choice of 
words, this morning, for when Lucy for the twentieth 
time asked if her dress were not a perfect beauty, the 
old Quakeress answered, “why it looks very decent,’ 
but it can do thee no good, for thy pa has said thee can- 
not wear it; besides, the holy writ reads, ‘Let your 
adorning ’ ” 

Here Lucy stopped her ears, exclaiming, “I do believe, 
grandma, you were manufactured from a chapter in the 
bible, for you throw your holy writ into my face on all 
occasions.” 

The good lady adjusted her spectacles, and replied, 
“ How thee talks ! I never thought of throwing my bi- 
ble at thee, Lucy ! ” 

Grandma had understood her literally. 

Nothing more was said of the party, until dinner time, 
although there was a determined look in Lucy’s flashing 


188 


THE THANKSGIVING PAETT. 


eye, which puzzled Lizzie not a little. Owing to the 
storm, Mr. Dayton’s country cousins did not, as was their 
usual custom, come into town to dine with him, and for 
this Lucy was thankful, for she thought nothing could be 
more disagreeable than to be compelled to sit all day and 
ask Cousin Peter how much his fatting hogs weighed; 
or his wife, Elizabeth Betsey, how many teeth the baby 
had got ; or, worse than all the rest, if the old maid^ 
Cousin Berintha, were present, to be obliged to be asked 
at least three times, whether it’s twenty-four or twenty- 
five she’d be next September, and on saying it was only 
twenty-three, have her word disputed and the family bi- 
ble brought in question. Even then Miss Berintha would 
demur, until she had taken the bible to the window, and 
squinted to see if the year had not been scratched out 
and rewritten ! Then closing the book with a profound 
sigh, she would say, “I never, now! it beats all how 
much older you look ! ” 

All these annoyances Lucy was spared on this day, for 
neither Cousin Peter, Elizabeth Betsey, or Miss Berintha 
made their appearance. At the dinner table, Mr. Day- 
ton remarked, quietly, to his daughters, “ I believe you 
have given up attending the party ! ” 

“Oh, no, father,” said Lucy, “we are going, Lizzie 
and I.” 

“ And what about your dress ? ” sasked Mr. Dayton. 

Lucy bit her lip as she replied, “ Wliy, of course, we 
must dress to suit you, or stay at home.’ 

Lizzie looked quickly at her sister, as if asking how 
long since she had come to this conclusion ; but Lucy’s 
face was calm and unruffled, betraying no secrets, al- 
though her tongue did when, after dinner, she found her- 
self alone with Lizzie in theii’ dressing-room. A long con- 
versation followed, in which Lucy seemed trying to per- 


THANKSGIVING DAT. 


189 


snade Lizzie to do something wrong. Possessed of the 
stronger mind, Lucy’s influence over her sister was great, 
and sometimes a had one, but never before had she pro- 
posed an open act of disobedience toward their father, 
and Lizzie constantly replied, “No, no, Lucy, I can’t do 
it ; besides, I really think I ought not to go, for that pain 
in my side is no better.” 

“Nonsense, Lizzie,” said Lucy. “If you are going to 
be as whimsical as Miss Beiintha, you had better begin 
at once to dose yourself with burdock or catnip tea.” 
Then, again recurring to the dress, she continued, “ Fa- 
ther did not say w^e must not wear them after we got 
there. I shall take mine, any way, and I wish you would 
do the same ; and then, if he ever knows it, he w ill not 
be as much displeased when he finds that you, too, are 
guilty.” 

After a time, Lizzie was persuaded, but her happiness 
for that day was destroyed, and when at tea time her fa- 
ther asked if she felt quite well, she could scarcely keep 
from bursting into tears. Lucy, however, came to her 
relief, and said she was feeling blue because Harry would 
not be present ! Just before the hour for the party, Lucy 
descended to the parlor, where her father was reading, in 
brder, as she said, to let him see whether her dress were 
fussy enough to suit him. He approved her taste, and 
after asking if Lizzie, too, were dressed in the same man- 
ner, resumed his paper. Ere long, the covered sleigh 
stood at the door, and in a few moments Lucy and Lizzie 
were in Anna Graham’s dressing-room, undergoing the 
process of a second toilet. 

Nothing could be more beautiful than was Lucy Hay- 
ton, after party dress, bracelets, curls, and flow^ers had all 
been adjusted. She probably thought so, too, for a smile 
of satisfaction curled her lip as she saw the radiant vision 


190 


THE THANKSGIVING PARTY. 


reflected by the mirror. Her bright eye flashed, and her 
heart swelled with pride as she thought, “Yes, there’s 
no help for it, I shall win him, sure ; ” then turning to 
Anna Graham, she asked, “ Is that Mr. St. Leon to be 
here to-night ? ” 

“ Yes, you know he is,” answered Anna, “ and I pity 
him, for I see you are all equipped for an attack ; but,” 
continued she, glancing at Lizzie, “ were not little Lizzie’s 
heart so hedged up by brother Hal, I should say your 
chance was small.” 

Lucy looked at her sister, and a chill struck her heart 
as she observed a spasm of pain which for an instant con- 
tracted Lizzie’s fair, sweet face. Anna noticed it, too, 
and springing toward her, said, “ What is it, Lizzie ? are 
you ill ? ” 

“Ho,” answered Lizzie, laying her hand on her side; 
“n ing but a sharp pain. It will soon be better;” 
but while she spoke, her teeth almost chattered with the 
cold. 

Oh, Lizzie, Lizzie ! 

For a short time, now, we will leave the young ladies in 
Miss Graham’s dressing-room, and transport our readers 
to anothei* part of the village. 


CHAPTER III. 

ADA HARGOURT. 

J 

In a small and neat, but scantily furnished chamber, a 
poor widow was preparing her only child, Ada, for the 
party. The plain, white muslin dress of two years old 
had been washed and ironed so carefully, that Ada said 


ADA HARCOUKT. 


191 


it looked just as wed as new ; but then everything looked 
well on Ada Harcourt, who was highly gifted, both with 
intellect and beauty. After her dress was arranged, she 
went to the table for her old white gloves, the cleaning 
of which had cost her much trouble, for her mother did 
not seem to be at all interested in them, so Ada did as 
well as she could. As she was abottt to put them on, her 
mother returned from a drawer, into the recesses of which 
she had been diving, and from which she brought a paper, 
carefully folded. 

“Here, Ada,” said she, “you need not wear those 
gloves ; see here — ” and she held up a pair of handsome 
mitts a fine linen handkerchief, and a neat little gold pm. 

“ Oh, mother, mother ! ” said Ada, joyfully, “ where 
did you get them ? ” 

“ I know,” answered Mrs. Harcourt, “ and that is 
enough.” 

After a moment’s thought, Ada knew, too. The little 
hoard of money her mother had laid by for a warm win- 
ter shawl, had been spent for her. From Ada’s lustrous 
blue eyes the tears were dropping, as, twining her arm 
around her mother’s neck, she said, “A/aw^A^y, naughty 
mother ! ” but there was a knock at the door. The 
sleigh wliich Anna Graham had promised to send for 
Ada, had come ; so dashing away her tears, and adjust- 
ing her new mitts and pin, she was soon warmly wrapped 
up, and on her way to Mr. Graham’s. 

^ * 

“ In the name of the people, who is that ? ” said Lucy 
Dayton, as Anna Graham entered the dressing-room, ac- 
companied by a bundle of something securely shielded 
from the cold. 


192 


THE THANKSGIVING PARTY. 


The removal of the hood soon showed Lucy who it was, 
and, with an exclamation of surprise, she turned inqui- 
ringly to a young lady who was standing near. To her 
look, the young lady replied, “ A freak of Anna’s I sup- 
pose. She thinks a great deal of those Harcourts.” 

An impatient “ pshaw ! ” burst from Lucy lips, accom- 
panied with the words, “ I wonder who she thinks wants 
to associate with that plejf^ian ! ” 

The words, the look, and the tone caught Ada’s eye 
and ear, and instantly blighted her happiness. In the 
joy and surprise of receiving an invitation to the party, 
it had never occurred to her that she might be slighted 
there, and she was not prej)ared for Lucy’s unkind re- 
mark. For an instant the tears moistened her long shken 
eyelashes, and a deeper glow mantled her usually bright 
cheek ; but this only increased her beauty, which tended 
to increase Lucy’s vexation. Lucy knew that in her own 
circle there was none to dispute her claim; but she knew, 
too, that in a low-roofed house, in the outskirts of the 
town, there dwelt a poor sewing woman, whose only 
daughter was famed for her wondrous beauty. Liucy had 
frequently seen Ada in the streets, but. never before had 
she met her, and she now determined to treat her with 
the utmost disdain. 

Not so was Lizzie affected by the presence of “ the ple- 
beian.” Mrs. Harcourt had done plain sewing for her 
father, and Lizzie had frequently called there for the work. 
In this way an acquaintance had been commenced be- 
tween herself and Ada, which had ripened into friendship. 
Lizzie, too, had heard the remark of her sister, and, anx- 
ious to atone, as far as possible, for the unkindness, she 
went up to Ada, expressed her pleasure at seeing her 
there, and then, as the young ladies were about descend- 
ing to the parlors, she offered her arm, saying, ‘‘ I will 


ABA HARCOURT. 


193 


accompany you down, but I have no doubt scores of beaux 
will quickly take you off my hands.” 

The parlors were nearly filled when our party reached 
them, and Ada, half tremblingly, clung to Lizzie’s arm, 
while, with queen-like grace and dignity, Lucy Dayton 
moved through the crowded drawing-rooms. Her quick 
eye had scanned each gentleman, but her search was fruit- 
less. He was not there, and during the next half hour 
she listened rather impatiently to the tide of fiattery 
poured into her ear by some one of her admirers. Sud- 
denly there was a stir at the door, and Mr. St. Leon was 
announced. He was a tall, fine looking man, probably 
about twenty-five years of age. The expression of his 
face was remarkably pleasing, and such as would lead an 
entire stranger to trust him, sure that his confidence 
would not be misplaced. His manners were liighly pol- 
ished, and in his dignified, self-possessed bearing, there 
was something which some called pride, but in all the 
wide world there was not a more generous heart than 
that of Hugh St. Leon. 

Lucy for a moment watched him narrowly, and then 
her feelings became perfectly calm, for she felt sure that 
now, for the first time, she looked upon her future hus- 
band! Ere long, Anna Graham approached, accompa- 
nied by the gentleman, whom she introduced, and then 
turning, left them alone. Lucy would have given almost 
anything to have knowm whether St. Leon had requested 
an introduction, but no means of information were at 
hand, so she bent all her energies to be as agreeable as 
possible to the handsome stranger at her side, who each 
moment seemed more and more pleased with her. 

Meantime, in another part of the room Lizzie and Ada 
were the center of attraction. The same kindness which 
prompted Anna Graham to invite Ada, was careful to see 

13 


194 


THE THANKSGIVING PABTY. 


that she did not feel neglected. For this purpose, Anna’s 
brother, Charlie, a youth of sixteen, had been instructed 
to pay her particular attention. This he was not unwil- 
ling to do, for he knew no reason why she should not be 
treated politely, even if she were a sewing woman’s daugh- 
ter. Others of the company, observing how attentive 
Charlie and Lizzie were to the beautiful girl, felt disposed 
to treat her graciously, so that to her the evening was 
passing very happily. 

When St. Leon entered the room, the hum of voices 
prevented Ada from hearing his name ; neither was she 
aware of his presence until he had been full fifteen min- 
utes conversing with Lucy. Then her attention was di- 
rected toward him by Lizzie. For a moment, Ada gazed 
as if spell-bound ; then a dizziness crept over her, and she 
nervously grasped the little plain gold ring which encir- 
cled the third finger of her left hand ! 

Turning to Lizzie, who, fortunately, had not noticed 
her agitation, she said, “What did you say his name 
was ? ” 

“ St. Leon, from Xew Orleans,” replied Lizzie. 

“ Then I ’m not mistaken,” Ada said, inaudibly. 

At that moment Anna Graham approached, and whis- 
pered sometliing to Ada, who gave a startled look, say- 
ing, “ Oh, no. Miss Anna ; you would not have me make 
myself ridiculous.” 

“ Certainly not,” answered Anna ; “neither will you do 
so, for some of your songs you sing most beautifully. Do 
come ; I wish to surprise my friends.” 

Ada consented rather unwillingly, and Anna led her 
toward the music-room, foUoAved by a dozen or more, all 
of whom wondered what a sewing woman’s daughter 
knew about music. On their way to the piano, they 


ADA HAECOURT. 


195 


passed near St. Leon and Lucy, the former of whom 
started as his eye fell upon Ada. 

“ I did not think there was another such face in the 
world,” said he, apparently to himself ; then turning to 
Lucy, he asked who that beautiful girl was. 

“ Which one ? ” asked Lucy ; “ there are many beauties 
here to-night.” 

“ I mean the one with the white muslin, and dark au- 
burn curls,” said St. Leon. 

Lucy’s brow darkened, but she answered, “That? 
oh, that is Ada Harcourt. Her mother is a poor sewing 
woman. I never met Ada before, and cannot conceive 
how she came to be here ; but then the Grahams are pe- 
culiar in their notions, and I suppose it was a whim of 
Anna’s.” 

Without knowing it, St. Leon had advanced some steps 
toward the door through which Ada had disappeared. 
Lucy followed him, vexed beyond measure, that the des- 
pised Ada Harcourt should even have attracted his at- 
tention. 

“ Is she as accomplished as handsome ? ” asked he. 

“ Why, of course not,” answered Lucy, with a forced 
laugh. “ Poverty, ignorance, and vulgarity go together, 
usually, I believe.” 

St. Leon gave her a rapid, searching glance, in which 
disappointment was mingled, but before he could reply, 
there was the sound of music. It was a sweet, bird-like 
voice which floated through the rooms, and the song it 
sang was a favorite one of St. Leon’s, who was passionately 
fond of music. 

“ Let us go nearer,” said he to Lucy, who, nothing 
loth, accompanied him, for she, too, was anxious to 
know who it was that thus chained each listener into 
silence. 


196 


THE THANKSGIVING PARTY. 


St. Leon at length got a sight of the singer, and said, 
with evident pleasure, “ Why, it’s Miss Harcourt ! ” 

“ Miss Harcourt ! Ada Harcourt ! ” exclaimed Lucy. 
“ Impossible I Why, her mother daily toils for the bread 
they eat I ” 

But if St. Leon heard her, he answered not. His 
senses were locked in those strains of music which re- 
called memories of something, he scarcely knew what, 
and Lucy found herself standing alone, her heart swelling 
with anger toward Ada, who from that time was her 
hated rival. The music ceased, but scores of voices were 
loud in their call for another song ; and again Ada sang, 
but this time there were in the tones of her voice a thrill- 
ing power, for which those who listened could not ac- 
count. To Ada, the atmosphere about her seemed 
changed, and though she never for a moment raised her 
eyes, she well knew who it was that leaned upon the pi- 
ano, and looked intently upon her. Again the song was 
finished, and then, at St. Leon’s request, he was intro- 
duced to the singer, who returned his salutation with per- 
fect self-possession, although her heart beat quickly, as 
she hoped, yet half feared, that he would recognize her. 
But he did not, and as they passed together into the next 
room, he wondered much why the hand which lay upon 
his arm trembled so violently, -while Ada said to herself, 
“’Tis not strange he doesn’t know me by this name.” 
Whether St. Leon knew her or not, there seemed about 
her some strong attraction, which kept him at her side 
the remainder of the evening, greatly to Lucy Dayton’s 
mortification and displeasure. 

“ I ’ll be revenged on her yet,” she muttered. “ The 
upstart ! I wonder where she learned to play.” 

This last sentence was said aloud ; and. Lizzie, who was 
standing near, replied, “Her father was once wealthy, 


ADA HAECOUET. 


ID7 


and Ada had the best of teachers. Since she has lived in 
S , she has occasionally practiced on Anna’s piano.” 

“ I think I’d keep a piano for paupers to play on, “ was 
Lucy’s contemptuous reply, uttered with no small degree 
of bitterness, for at that moment St. Leon approached her 
with the object of her dislike leaning upon his arm. 

Ada introduced Lizzie to St. Leon, who offered her his 
other arm, and the three kept together until Lizzie, utter- 
ing a low, sharp cry of pain, leaned heavily as if for sup- 
port against St. Leon. In an instant Lucy was at her side ; 
but to all her anxious inquiries Lizzie could only reply, as 
she clasped her thin, white hand over her side, “The 
pain, — the pain, — take me home.” 

“ Our sleigh has not yet come,” said Lucy. “ Oh, what 
shall we do ? ” 

“ Mine is here, and at your command, Miss Dayton,” 
said St. Leon. 

Lucy thanked him, and then proceeded to prepare Liz- 
zie, who, chilled through and through by the exposure of 
her chest and arms, had borne the racking pain in her 
side as long as possible, and now lay upon the sofa as 
helpless as an infant. When all was ready St. Leon lifted 
her in his arms, and bearing her to the sleigh, stepped 
lightly in with her, and took his seat. 

“ It is hardly necessary for you to accompany us home,” 
said Lucy, overjoyed beyond measure, though, to find 
that he was going. 

“Allow me to be the judge,” answered St. Leon; and 
other than that, not a word was spoken until they reached 
Mr. Dayton’s door. Then, carefully carrying Lizzie into 
the house, he was about to leave, when Lucy detained 
him to thank him for his kindness, adding that she hoped 
to see him again. 

“ Certainly, I shall call tonnorrow,” was his reply, as 


198 


THE THANKSGIVING PAETT. 


he sprang down the steps, and entering his sleigh, was 
driven back to Mr. Graham’s. 

He found the company about dispersing, and meeting 
Ada in the hall, asked to accompany her home. Ada’s 
pride for a moment hesitated, and then she answered in 
the affirmative. When St. Leon had seated her in his 
sleigh, he turned back, on pretext of looking for some- 
thing, but in reality to ask Anna Graham where Ada 
lived, as he did not wdsh to question her on the subject. 

When they were nearly home, St. Leon said, “ Miss 
Harcourt, have you always lived in S ? ” 

“We have lived here but two years,” answered Ada; 
and St. Leon continued : “ I cannot rid myself of the im- 
pression that somewhere I have met you before.” 

“ Indeed,” said Ada, “ when, and where ? ” 

But his reply was prevented by the sleigh’s stopping at 
Mrs. Harcourt’s door. As St. Leon bade Ada good night, 
he whispered, “ I shall see you again.” 

Ada made no answer, but going into the house where 
her mother was waiting for her, she exclaimed, “Oh, 
mother, mother, I’ve seen him ! — he was there ! — he 
brought me home ! ” 

“ Seen whom ? ” asked Mrs. Harcourt, alarmed at her 
daughter’s agitation. 

“ Why, Hugh St. Leon ! ” replied Ada. 

“ St. Leon in town ! ” repeated Mrs. Harcourt, her eye 
lighting jip with joy. 

’Twas only for a moment, however, for the remembrance 
of what she Avas when she knew St. Leon, and what she 
now Avas, recurred to her, and she said calmly, “ I thought 
you had forgotten that childish fancy. 

“ Forgotten ! ” said Ada bitterly ; and then as she re- 
called the unkind remark of Lucy Dayton, she burst into 
a passionate fit of weeping. 


ADA HAKCOUKT. 


199 


After a time, Mrs. Harcourt succeeded in soothing her, 
and then drew from her all the particulars of the party, 
St. Leon and all. When Ada had finished, her mother 
kissed her fair cheek, saying, “ I fancy St. Leon thinks as 
much of little Ada now as he did six years ago ; ” but Ada 
could not think so, though that night, in dreams, she was 
again happy in her old home in the distant city, while at 
her side was St. Leon, who even then was dreaming of 
a childish face which had haunted him six long years. 


CHAPTER IV. 

LUCY. 

We left Lizzie lying upon the sofa, where St. Leon had 
laid her. After he was gone, Lucy proposed calling their 
father and sending for a physician, but Lizzie objected, 
saying she should be better when she got warm. During 
the remainder of that night, Lucy sat by her sister’s bed- 
side, while each cry of pain wliich came from Lizzie’s lips 
fell heavily upon her heart, for conscience accused her of 
Iteing the cause of all this suffering. At length the weary 
night watches were finished, but the morning light showed 
more distinctly Lizzie’s white brow and burning cheeks. 
She had taken a severe cold, which had settled upon her 
lungs, and now she was paying the penalty of her first act 
of disobedience. 

Mr. Dayton had sent for the old family physician, who 
understood Lizzie’s constitution perfectly. He shook his 


200 


THE THANKSGIVING PARTY. 


head as he said, “ How came she by such a cold ? Did 
she go the party ? ” 

“ Yes, sir, ” replied Mr. Dayton. 

“ And not half dressed. I’ll warrant,” said the gruff old 
doctor. 

Lucy turned pale as her father answered, quickly and 
truthfully, as he thought, “No, sir, she was properly 
dressed.” 

Lizzie heard it, and though speaking was painful, she 
said, “ Forgive me, father, forgive me ; I disobeyed you. 
I wore the dress you said I must not wear ! ” 

An exclamation of surprise escaped Mr. Dayton, who, 
glancing at Lucy, read in her guilty face what Lizzie gen- 
erously would not betray. 

“ Oh, Lucy, Lucy,” said he, “ how could you do so ? ” 

Lucy could only reply through her tears. She was sin- 
cerely sorry that by her means Lizzie had been brought 
into danger ; but when the doctor said that by careful 
management she might soon be better, all feelings of 
regret vanished, and she again began to think of St. Leon 
and his promise to call. A look at herself in the mirror 
showed her that she was looking pale and jaded, and she 
half hoped he would not come. However, as the day 
wore on, she grew nervous as she thought he possibly 
might be spending his time with the hated Ada. But he 
was not, and at about four o’clock there was a ring at the 
door. From ^ upper window Lucy saw St. Leon, and 
when Bridget came up for her, she asked if the parlor was 
well darkened. 

“ An’ sure it’s darker nor a pocket,” said Bridget,” “ an’ 
he couldn’t see a haporth was ye twice as sorry lookin’.” 

So bathing her face in cologne, in order to force a glow, 
Lucy descended to the parlor, which she found to be as 
dark as Bridget had said it was. St. Leon received her 


LUCY. 


201 


very kindly, for the devotion she had the night before 
shown for her sister, had partially counterbalanced the 
spitefulness he had observed in her manner when speaking 
of Ada at the party. Notwithstanding Bridget’s precau- 
tions, he saw, too, that she was pale and spiritless, but he 
attributed it to her anxiety for her sister, and this raised 
her in his estimation. Lucy divined his thoughts, and in 
her efforts to appear amiable and agreeable, a half hour 
passed quickly away. At the end of that time she un- 
fortunately asked, in a very sneering tone, “ how long since 
he had seen the sewing girl ? ” 

“ If you mean Miss Harcourt,” said St. Leon, coolly, 
“ I’ve not seen her since I left her last night at her mother’s 
door.” 

“ You must have been in danger of upsetting if you at- 
tempted to turn round in Mrs. Harcourt’s spacious yard,” 
was Lucy’s next remark. 

“ I did not attempt it,” said St. Leon. “ I carried Miss 
Ada in my arms from the street to the door.” 

The tone and manner were changed. Lucy knew it, 
and it exasperated her to say something more, but she 
was prevented by St. Leon’s rising to go. As Lucy ac- 
companied him to the door, she asked “ how long he in- 
tended to remain in S . ” 

“I leave this evening, in the cars for New Haven,” 
said he. 

“ This evening ? ” repeated Lucy in a disappointed tone, 
“ and will you not return ? ” 

“Yes, if the business on which I go is successful,” an- 
swered St. Leon. 

“ A lady in question, perchance,” remarked Lucy play- 
fully. 

“ You interpret the truth accurately,” said St. Leon, 
and with a cold, polite bow, he was gone. 


202 


THE THANKSGIVING PARTT. 


“ Why was he going to N ew Haven ? ” This was the 
thought which now tortured Lucy. He had confessed 
that a lady was concerned in his going, hut who was she, 
and what was she to him ? Any way, there was a com- 
fort in knowing that Ada Harcourt had nothing to do 
with it ! * 

Mistaken Lucy ! Ada Harcourt had everything to do 
with it ! 


* CHAPTER V. 

UNCLE ISRAEL. 

The lamps were lighted in the cars, and on through the 
valley of the Connecticut, the New Haven train was 
speeding its way. In one comer of the car sat St. Leon, 
closely wrapped in cloak and thoughts, the latter of which 
occasionally suggested to him the possibility that his was 
a Tomfool’s errand ; “ but then,” thought he, “ no one 
will know it if I fail, and if I do not, it is worth the 
trouble.” 

When the train reached Hartford, a number of passen- 
gers entered, all bound for New Haven. Among them 
■was a comical-looking, middle aged man, whom St. Leon 
instantly recognized as a person whom he had known 
when in college, in New Haven, and whom the students 
familiarly called “Uncle Israel.” The recognition was 
mutual, for Uncle Israel prided himself on never forget- 
ting a person he had once seen. In a few moments St. 
Leon was overwhelming him mth scores of questions, but 
LTncle Israel was a genuine Yankee, and never felt hap- 
pier than when engaged in giving or guessing information. 


UNCLE ISRAEL. 


203 


At length St. Leon asked, “ Does Ada Lin wood fulfill 
the promise of beauty which she gave as a child ? ” 

“ Ada who ? ” said Uncle Israel. 

“ Linwood,” repeated St. Leon, arguing from the jog 
in Uncle Israel’s memory that all was not right. 

“ Do you mean^ the daughter of Harcourt Linwood, he 
that w^as said to be so rich ? ” 

“ The same,” returned St. Leon. “ Where are they ? ” 

Uncle Israel settled himself with the air of a man who 
has a long story on hand, and intends to tell it at his lei- 
sure. Filling his mouth with an enormous quid of tobacco, 
he commenced: “Better than four years ago Linwood 
smashed up, smack and clean; lost everything he had, 
and the rest had to be sold at vandue. But what was 
worse than all, seein’ he was a fine feUer in the main, and 
I guess didn’t mean to fail, he took sick, and in about a 
month died.” 

“ And what became of his widow and orphan ? ” asked 
St. Leon, eagerly. 

“ Why, it wasn’t nateral,” said Uncle Israel, “ that they 
should keep the same company they did before, and they’s 
too plaguy stuck up to keep any other ; so they moved 
out of town and supported themselves by takin’ in sewin’ 
or ironin’, I forgot which.” 

“ But where are they now ? ” asked St. Leon. 

Uncle Israel looked at him for a moment, and then re- 
plied, “ The Lord knows, I suppose, but Israel don’t.” 

“ Did they suffer at all ? ” asked St. Leon. 

“Not as long as I stuck to them, but they sarved me 
real mean,” answered Uncle Israel. 

“ In what way ? ” 

“ W^hy, you see,” said Uncle Israel, “ I don’t know why, 
but somehow I never thought of matrimony till I got a 


204 


THE THANKSGIVING PARTY. 


glimpse of Ada at her father’s vandue. To t)e sure, I’d 
seen her before, but then she was mighty big feelin’, and 
I couldn’t ha’ touched her with a hoe-handle, but now 
’t was different. I bought their house. I was rich and 
they was poor.” 

Involuntarily St. Leon clenched his fist, as Uncle Israel 
continued : “ I seen to getting them a place in the coun- 
try, and then tended to ’em generally for more than six 
months, when I one day hinted to Mrs. Linwood that I 
would like to be her son-in-law. Christopher ! how quick 
her back was up, and she gave me to understand that I 
was lookin’ too high ! ’Twas no go with Ada, and after 
a while I proposed to the mother. Then you ought to 
seen her ! She didn’t exactly turn me out o’door, but she 
coolly told me I wasn’t wanted there. But I stuck to 
her, and kept kind o’ offerin’ myself, tiU at last they cut 
stick and cleared out, and I couldn’t find them, high nor 
low. I hunted for more than a year, and at last found 
them in Hartford. ' Thinkin’ may be, they had come to, I 
proposed again, and kept hangin’ on till they gave me the 
slip again ; and now I don’t know where they be, but I 
guess they’ve changed their name.” 

At this point, the cars stopped, until the upward train 
should pass them, and St. Leon, rising, bade his compan- 
ion good evening, saying “ he had changed his mind, and 
should return to Hartford on the other train.” 


EXPLAKATIOK. 


205 


CHAPTER YI. 

EXPLANATION. * 

Six years prior to the commencement of our story, New 
Haven boasted not a better or wealthier citizen than Har- 
court Linwood, of whose subsequent failure and death we 
have heard from Uncle Israel. The great beauty of his 
only child, Ada, then a girl of nearly thirteen, was the 
subject of frequent comment among the circle in which he 
moved. No pains were spared with her education, and 
many were the conjectures as to what she would be when 
time had matured her mind and beauty. 

Hugh St. Leon, of New Orleans, then nineteen years 
of age, and a student at Yale, had frequently met Ada at 
the house of his sister, Mrs. Durant, whose eldest daugh- 
ter, Jenny, was about her o’wn age. The uncommon 
beauty of the child greatly interested the young south- 
erner, and once, in speaking of his future prospects to bis 
sister, he playfully remarked, “ Suppose I wait for Ada 
Linwood.” 

“ You cannot do better,” was the reply, and the con- 
versation terminated. 

The next evening there was to be a child’s party at the 
house of Mrs Durant, and as Hugh was leaving the house, 
Jenny bounded after him, saying, “Oh, Uncle Hugh, 
you’ll come to-morrow night, won’t you? No matter if 
you are a grown up man, in the junior class, trying to 
raise some whiskers ! You will be a sort of restraint, and 
keep us from getting too rude. Besides, we are going to 
have tableaux, and I want you to act the part of bride- 
groom in one of the scenes.” 

“ Who is to be the bride ? ” asked Hugh. 


206 


THE THANKSGIVING PAETT. 


“ Ada Linwood. Now I know you’ll come, won’t you ? ” 

“ I’ll see,” was Hugh’s answer, as he walked away. 

J enny well knew that “ I’ll see ” meant “ yes,” and ty- 
ing on her bonnet, she hastened off to tell Ada that Uncle 
Hugh would be present, and would act the part of bride- 
groom in the scene where she was to be bride. 

“ What ! that big man ? ” said Ada. “How funny ! ” 

Before seven the next evening Mrs. Durant’s parlors 
were filled, for the guests were not old enough or fashiona- 
ble enough to delay making their appearance until morn- 
ing. Hugh was the last to arrive, for which J enny scolded 
him soundly, saying they were all ready for tableaux. 
“ But come, now,” said she, “ and let me introduce you to 
the bride.” 

In ten minutes more the curtain rose, and Hugh St. 
Leon appeared with Ada on his arm, standing before a 
gentleman in clerical robes, who seemed performmg the 
marriage ceremony. Placing a ring on Ada’s third fin- 
ger, St. Leon, when the whole was finished, took advan- 
tage of his new relationship, and kissed the lips of the 
bride. Amid a storm of applause the curtain dropped, 
and as he led the blushing Ada away, he bent down, and 
pointing to the ring, whispered, “ Wear it until some fu- 
ture day, when, by replacing it, I shall make you really 
my little wife.” 

The words were few and lightly spoken, but they touched 
the heart of the young Ada, awakening within her thoughts 
and feelings of which she never before had dreamed. 
Frequently, after that, she met St. Leon, who sometimes 
teased her about being his wife ; but when he saw how 
painfully embarrassed she seemed on such occasions, he 
desisted. 

The next year he was graduated, and the same day on 
which he received the highest honors of his class was long 


EXPLAKATIOSr. 


201 


remembered with heartfelt sorrow, for ere the city clocks 
tolled the hour of midnight, he stood with his orphan 
niece, Jenny, weeping over the inanimate form of his sis- 
ter, Mrs. Durant, who had died suddenly in a fit of apo- 
plexy. Mr. Durant had been dead some years, and as 
Jenny had now no relatives in New Haven, she accom- 
panied her uncle to his southern home. Long and pas- 
sionately she we}5t on Ada’s bosom, as she bade her fare- 
well, promising never to forget her, but to write her three 
pages of foolscap every week. To do Jenny justice, we 
must say that this promise was faithfully kept for a whole 
month, and then, wdth thousands of its sisterhood, it dis- 
appeared into the vale of broken promises and resolutions. 

She still wrote occasionally, and at the end of each epis- 
tle there was always a long postscript from Hugh, which 
Ada prized almost as much as she did Jenny’s whole let- 
ter ; and wLen at last matters changed, the letter becom- 
ing Hugh’s and the postscript Jenny’s, she made no ob- 
jection, even if she felt any. At the time of her father’s 
failure and death, a long unanswered letter was lying in 
her port-folio, which was entirely forgotten until weeks 
after, when, in the home which Uncle Israel so disinter- 
estedly helped them to procure, she and her mother were 
sewing for the food which they ate. Then a dozen times 
was an answer commenced, blotted with tears, and finally 
destroyed, until Ada, hurrying her face in her mother’s 
lap, sobbed out, “ Oh, mother, I cannot do it. I cannot 
w^rite to tell them how poor we are, for I remember that 
Jenny was proud, and laughed at the school-girls whose 
fathers were not rich.” 

So the letter was never answered, and as St. Leon about 
that time started on a tour through Europe, he knew no- 
thing of their change of circumstances. On his way home, 
he had in Paris met with Harry Graham, who had been 


208 


THE THAKESGIVING PAKTY. 


his classmate, and who now won from him a promise that 
on his return to America he would visit his parents, in 

S . He did so, and there, as we have seen, met with 

Ada Harcourt, whose face, voice, and manner reminded 
him so strangely of the Ada he had known years before, 
and whom he had never forgotten. 

As the reader will have supposed, the sewing woman, 
“whose daughter Lucy Dayton so heartily despised, was 
none other than Mrs. Linwood, of Hew Haven, who had 
taken her husband’s first name in order to avoid the per- 
secutions of Uncle Israel. The day following the party, 
St. Leon spent in making inquiries concerning Mrs Har- 
court, and the information thus obtained determined him 
to start at once for Hew Haven, in order to ascertain if 
his suspicions were correct. 

The result of his journey we already know. Still he re- 
solved not to make himself known, immediately, but to 
wait until he satisfied himself that Ada was as good as 
beautiful. And then ? 

A few more chapters will tell us what then. 


CHAPTER YII. 

A MANEUVER. 

The grey twilight of a cold December afternoon was 

creeping over the village of S , when Ada Harcourt 

left her seat by the window, where, the live-long day, she 
had sat stitching till her heart was sick and her eyes were 
dim. On the faded calico lounge near the fire, lay Mrs. 
Harcoui't, who for several days had been unable to work, 


A MANEUVER. 


209 


on account of a severe cold whicli seemed to have settled 
in her face and eyes. 

“ There,” said Ada, as she brushed from her gingham 
apron the bits of thread and shreds of cotton, “ There, it 
is done at last, and now before it is quite dark I will take 
it home,” 

“No, not to-night, child,” said Mrs. Harcourt; “to- 
morrow will do just as well.”/ 

“ But, mother, answered Ada,” you know Mrs. Dayton 
always pays as soon as the work is delivered, and what I 
have finished will come to two dollars and a half, which 
will last a long time, and we shall not be obliged to take 
any from the sum laid by to pay our rent ; besides, you 
have had nothing nourishing for a long time ; so let me 
go, and on my way home I will buy you something nice 
for supper.” 

Mrs. Harcourt said no more, but the tears fell from her 
aching eyes as she thought how hard her daughter was 
obliged to labor, now that she was unable to assist her. 
In a moment Ada was in the street. The little alley in 
which she lived was soon traversed, and she was about 
tui-ning into Main street, when rapid footsteps approached 
her, and St. Leon appeared at her side, saying, “ Good 
evening. Miss Harcourt ; allow me to relieve you of that 
bundle.” 

And before she could prevent it, he took from her 
hands the package, while he continued, “ May I ask how 
far you are walking to-night ? ” 

Ada hesitated a moment, but quickly forcing down her 
pride, she answered, “ Only as far as Mr. Dayton’s. I am 
carrying home some work.” 

“ Indeed ! ” said he, “ then I can have your company 
all the way, for I am going to inquire after Lizzie.” 

They soon reached then* destination, and their ring at 
14 


210 


THE THANKSGIVING PARTY. 


the door was not, as usual, answered by Bridget, but by 
Lucy herself, whose sweet smile, as she greeted St. Leon, 
changed into an angry scowl when she recognized his 
companion. 

“ Ada Harcourt ! ” said she, and Ada, blushing scarlet, 

began : “ I have brought ,” but she was interrupted 

by St. Leon, who handed Lucy the bundle, saying, “ Here 
is yeur work. Miss Dayton, and I hope it will suit you, 
for we took a great deal of pains with it.” 

Lucy tried to smile as she took the work, and then open- 
ing the parlor door she with one hand motioned St. Leon 
to enter, while with the other she held the hall door ajar, 
as if for Ada to depart. A tear trembled on Ada’s long 
eyelashes, as she timidly asked, “ Can I see your grand- 
mother ? ” 

“Mrs. Dayton, I presume you mean,” said Lucy, 
haughtily. 

Ada bowed, and Lucy continued : “ She is not at home 
just at present.” 

“ Perhaps, then, you can pay me for the work,” said 
Ada. 

The scowl on Lucy’s face grew darker, as she replied, 
“ I have nothing to do with grandma’s hired help. Come 
to-morrow and she will be here. (How horridly cold 
this open door makes the hall ! ”) 

Ada thought of the empty cupboard at home, and of 
her pale, sick mother. Love for her conquered all other 
feelings, and in a choking voice she said, “ Oh, Miss Day- 
ton,* if you will pay it you will confer a great favor on 
me, for mother is sick, and we need it so much ! ” 

There was a movement in the parlor. St. Leon was 
approaching, and with an impatient gesture, Lucy opened 
the opposite door, saying to Ada, “ Come in here.” 

The tone was so angry that, under any other circum- 


A MANEUVEE. 


211 


stances, Ada would have gone away. ISTow, however, 
she entered, and Lucy, taking out her purse, said, “ How 
much is the sum about which you make so much fuss ? ” 

“Two dollars and a half,” answered Ada. 

“ Two dollars and a half,” repeated Lucy; and then, as 
a tear fell from Ada’s eye, she added, contemptuously, 
“ It is a small amount to cry about.” 

Ada made no reply, and was about leaving the room, 
when Lucy detained her, by saying, “ Pray, did you ask 
Mr. St. Leon to accompany you here and bring your 
bundle ? ” 

“ Miss Dayton, you know better, — you know I did not,” 
answered Ada, as the fire of insulted pride flashed from 
her dark blue eyes, which became almost black, while her 
cheek grew pale as marble. 

Instantly Lucy’s manner changed, and in a softened 
tone she said, “ I am glad to know that you did not ; 
and now, as a friend, I warn you against receiving any 
marks of favor from St. Leon.” 

“ What do you mean ? ” asked Ada, and Lucy con- 
tinued : “You have sense enough to know, that when a 
man of St. Leon’s standing shows any preference for a 
girl in your circumstances, it can be from no good design.” 

“ You judge him' wrongfully — you do not know him,” 
said Ada; and Lucy answered, “Pray, where did you 
learn so much about him ? ” 

Ada only answered by rising to go. 

“ Here, this way,” said Lucy, and leading her through 
an outer passage to the back door, she added, “ I do it to 
save yoiu* good name. St. Leon is undoubtedly waiting 
for you, and I would not trust my own sister with him, 
were she a poor sewing girl ! ” 

The door was shut m Ada’s face, and Lucy returned to 
the parlor, where she found her father entertaining her 


212 


THE THANKSGIVING PARTY. 


visitor. Seating herself on a crimson ottoman, she pre- 
pared to do the agreeable, when St. Leon rising, said, 
“ Excuse my short call, for I must be going. Where have 
you left Miss Harcourt ? ” 

“ I left her at the door,” answered Lucy, “ and she is 
probably half way to ‘ Dirt Alley ’ by this time, so do not 
be in haste.” 

But he was in haste, for when he looked on the fast 
gathering darkness without, and thought of the by streets 
and lonely alleys through wLich Ada must pass on her 
way home, he felt uneasy, and bidding Miss Dayton good- 
night, he hurried away. 

Meantime, Ada had procured the articles she wished 
for, and proceeded home, with a heart which would have 
been light as a bird, had not the remembrance of Lucy’s 
insulting language rung in her ears. Mrs. Harcourt saw 
that all was not right, but she forbore making any inqui- 
ries until supper was over. Then Ada, bringing a stool 
to her mother’s side, and laying her head on her lap, told 
everything which had transpired between herself, St. Leon, 
and Lucy. 

Scarcely was her story finished, when there was a rap at 
the door, and St. Leon himself entered the room. He had 
failed in overtaking Ada, and anxious to know of her safe 
return, had determined to call. The recognition between 
himself and Mrs. Harcourt was mutual, but for reasons 
of their own, neither chose to make it apparent, and Ada 
introduced him to her mother as she would have done 
any stranger. St. Leon possessed in an unusual degree 
the art of making himself agreeable, and in the animated 
conversation which ensued, Mrs. Harcourt forgot that she 
was poor, — forgot her aching eyes ; while Ada forgot ev- 
erything save that St. Leon was present, and that she was 


A. MANEUVER. 


213 


again listening to his voice, which charmed her now even 
more than in the olden time. 

During the evening, St. Leon managed, in various 
ways, to draw Ada out on all the prominent topics of the 
day, and he felt pleased to find, that amid all her poverty 
she did not neglect the cultivation of her mind. A part 
of each day was devoted to study, which Mrs. Harcourt, 
who was a fine scholar, superintended. 

It was fast merging toward the hour when phantoms walk 
abroad, ere St. Leon remembered that he must go. As 
he was leaving, he said to Ada, ‘‘I have a niece, Jenny, 
about your age, whom I think you would like very much.” 

Oh how Ada longed to ask for her old playmate, but a 
look from her mother kept her silent, and in a moment 
St. Leon was gone. 


CHAPTER YIIT. 

COUSIN BERINTHA AND LUCY’S PARTY. 

Cousin B^*rintha, whom Lucy Dayton so much^ dis- 
liked and dreaded, was a cousin of Mr. Dayton, and was 
a prim, matter-of-fact maiden of fifty, or thereabouts. 
That she was still in a state of single blessedness, was 
partially her own fault, for at twenty she was engaged to 
the son of a wealthy farmer who lived near her father. 
But, alas ! ere the wedding day arrived, there came to 
the neighborhood a young lady from Boston, in whose 
presence the beauty of the country girl grew dim, as do 
the stars in the rays of the morning sun. 

Berintha had a plain face, but a strong heart, and when 


214 


THE THANKSGIVING PAHTY. 


she saw that Amy Holbrook was preferred, with steady 
hand and unflinching nerve, she wrote to her recreant 
lover that he was free. And now Amy, to whom the 
false knight turned, took it into her capricious head that 
she could not marry a farmer, — she had always fancied a 

physician ; and if young B would win her, he must 

first secure the title of M. D. He complied with her re- 
quest, and one week from the day on which he received 
his diploma, Berintha read, with a slightly blanched 
cheek, the notice of his marriage with the Boston 
beauty. Three years from that day she read the an- 
nouncement of Amy’s death, and in two years more 
she refused the doctor’s ofier to give her a home by his 
lonely fireside, and a place in his widowed heart. All 
this had the efiect of making Berintha rather cross, 
but she seldom manifested her spite toward any one ex- 
cept Lucy, whom she seemed to take peculiar delight in 
teasing, and whose treatment of herself was not such as 
would warrant much kindness in return. 

Lizzie she had always loved, and when Harry Graham 
went away, it was on Berintha’s lap that the young girl 
sobbed out her grief, wondering, when with her tears Be- 
rintha’s were mingled, how one apparently so cold and pas- 
sionless could sympathize with her. To no one had Be- 
rintha ever confided the story of her early love. Mr. 
Dayton was a school-boy then, and as but little was said 
of it at the time, it faded entirely from memory ; and 
when Lucy called her a “ crabbed old maid,” she knew 
not of the disappointment which had clouded every joy, 
and embittered a whole lifetime. 

At the first intelligence of Lizzie’s illness, Berintha 
came, and though her prescriptions of every kind of herb 
tea in the known world were rather numerous, and her 
doses of the same were rather large, and though her stiff 


COUSIN BERINTHA AND LUCY’S PARTY. 


215 


cap, sharp nose, and curious little eyes, which saw every- 
thing^, were exceedingly annoying to Lucy, she proved 
herself an mvaluahle nurse, warming up old Dr. Benton’s 
heart into a glow of admiration of her wonderful skill ! 
Hour after hour she sat by Lizzie, bathing her burning 
brow, or smoothing her tumbled pillow. Night after 
night she kept her tireless watch, treading softly around 
the sick-room, and lowering her loud, harsh voice to a 
whisper, lest she should disturb the uneasy slumbers of 
the sick girl, who, under her skillful nursing, gradually 
grew better. 

“Was there ever such a dear, good cousin,” said Liz- 
zie, one day, when a nervous headache had been coaxed 
away by what Berintha called her “ mesmeric passes ; ” 
and “Was there ever such a horrid bore,” said Lucy, on 
the same day, when Cousin Berintha “ thought she saw a 
hair in Lucy’s raven curls!” adding, by way of 
consolation, “ It wouldn’t be anything strange, for I be- 
gan to grow gray before I was as old as you.” 

“ And that accounts for your head being just the color 
of wool,” angrily retorted Lucy, little dreaming of the 
bitter tears and sleepless nights which had early blanched 
her cousin’s hair to its present whiteness. 

For several winters Lucy had been in the habit of giving 
a large party, and as she had heard that St. Leon was soon 
going south, she felt anxious to have it take place ere he 
left town. But what should she do with Berintha, who 
showed no indications of leaving, though Lizzie was much 
better. 

“ I declare,” said she to herself, “ that woman is enough 
to worry the life out of me. I ’ll speak to Liz about it 
this very day.” 

Accordiugly, that afternoon, when alone with her sis- 
ter, she said, “ Lizzie, is it absolutely necessary that Be- 


216 


THE THANKSGIVING PAETY. 


rintha should stay here any longer, to tuck you up, and 
feed you sage tea through a straw ? ” 

Lizzie looked inquiringly at her sister, who continued, 
“ To tell you the truth. I’m tired of having her around, 
and must manage some way to get rid of her before next 
week, for I mean to have a party Thursday night.” 

Lizzie’s eyes now opened in astonishment, as she ex- 
claimed, “ A party ! oh, Lucy, wait until I get well.” 

“You’ll be able by that time to come down stairs in 
your crimson morning-gown, which becomes you so well,” 
answered Lucy. 

“But father’s away,” rejoined Lizzie; to which Lucy 
replied, “ So much the better, for now I shan’t be obliged 
to ask any old things. I told him I meant to have it 
while he was gone, for you know he hates parties. But 
what shall I do with Berintha? ” 

“ Why, what possible harm can she do ? ” asked Lizzie. 
“ She would enjoy it very much, I know ; for in spite of 
her oddities, she likes society.” 

“Well, suppose she does; nobody wants her roimd, 
prating about white hairs and mercy knows what. Come, 
you tell her you don’t need her services any longer — 
that’s a good girl.” 

There was a look of mischief in Lizzie’s eye, and a merry 
smile on her lip, as she said, “ Why, don’t you know that 
father has invited her to spend the winter, and she has 
accepted the invitation ? ” 

“ Invited her to spend the winter ! ” repeated Lucy, 
while the tears glittered in her bright eyes. “ What does 
he mean ? ” 

“ Why,” answered Lizzie, “ it is very lonely at Cousin 
John’s, and his wife makes more of a servant of Berintha 
than she does a companion, so father, out of pity, asked 
her to stay with us, and she showed her good taste by 
accepting.” 


COUSm BERINTHA AlH) LUCY’S PARTY. 


217 


“ I’ll hang myself in the woodshed before spring — see 
if I don’t ! ” and burying her face in her hands, Lucy wept 
aloud, while Lizzie, lying back upon her pillow, laughed 
immoderately at her sister’s distress. 

“There’s a good deal to laugh at, I think,” said Lucy, 
more angrily than she usually addressed her sister. “ If 
you have any pity, do devise some means of getting rid 
of her, for a time, at least.” 

“ Well, then,” answered Lizzie, “ she wants to go home 
for a few days, in order to make some necessary prepara- 
tions for staying with us, and perhaps you can coax her 
to go now, though I for one would like to have her stay. 
Everybody knows she is your cousm, and no one will 
think less of you for having her here.” 

“ But I won’t do it,” said Lucy, “ and that settles it. 
Your plan is a good one, and I’ll get her ofl* — see if I 
don’t ! ” 

The next day, which was Saturday, Lucy was unusually 
kind to her cousin, giving her a collar, offering to fix her 
cap, and doing numerous other little things, which greatly 
astonished Berintha. At last, when dinner was over, she 
said, “ Come, cousin, what do you say to a sleigh ride 
this afternoon ? I haven’t been down to Elizabeth Bet- 
sey’s in a good while, so suppose we go to-day.” 

Berintha was taken by surprise, but after a moment 
she said just what Lucy hoped she would say, viz : that 
she was wanting to go home for a few days, and if Lizzie 
w^ere only weU enough, she would go now. 

“ Oh she is a great deal better,” said Lucy, “ and you 
can leave her as well as not. Dr. Benton says I am 
almost as good a nurse as you, and I w^ill take good care 
of her, — besides, I really think you need rest ; so go, 
if you wish to, and next Saturday I wiU come round after 
you.” 


218 


THE THAJ!fKSGIVING PAIiTY. 


Accordingly, Berintha, who suspected nothing, was 
coaxed into going home, and when at three o’clock the 
sleigh was said to be ready, she kissed Lizzie good-by, 
and taking her seat by the side of Lucy, was driven rap- 
idly toward her brother’s house. 

](c >lt 4( * 


“ There ! haven’t I managed it capitally ! ” exclaimed 
Lucy, as she reentered her sister’s room, after her ride ; 
“ but the bother of it is, I’ve promised to go round next 
Saturday, and bring not only Berintha, but Elizabeth 
Betsey and her twins ! Won’t it be horrible ! However, 
the party’ll be over, so I don’t care.” 

Cousin Berintha being gone, there was no longer any 
reason why the party should be kept a secret, and before 
nightfall every servant in the house was discussing it, 
Bridget saying, ‘‘ Faith, an’ I thought it was mighty good 
she was gettin’ with that woman.” 

Mrs. Dayton was highly indignant at the trick which 
she plainly saw had been put upon Berintha, but Lucy 
only replied, “ that she wished it were as easy a matter 
to get rid of grandma ! ” 

On Monday cards of invitation to the number of one 
hundred and fifty were issued, and when Lizzie, in looking 
them over, asked why Ada Harcourt was left out, Lucy 
replied, that “ she guessed she wasn’t going to insult her 
guests by inviting a sewing girl with them. Anna Gra- 
ham could do so, but nobody was going to imitate her.” 

“Invite her, then, for my sake, and in my name,” 
pleaded Lizzie, but Lucy only replied, “ I shaU do no such 
thing ; ” and thus the matter was settled. 

Amid the hm’ry and preparation for the party, days 


COUSIK BEEINTHA AND LIJCY’S PAETY. 219 

glided rapidly away, and Thursday morning came, bright, 
beautiful, and balmy, almost, as an autumnal day. 

“ Isn’t this delightful ! ” said Lucy, as she stepped out 
upon the piazza, and felt the warm southern breeze upon 
her cheek. “It’s a wonder, though,” she continued, 
“that madam nature didn’t conjure up an awful storm for 
my benefit, as she usually does ! ” 

Before night, she had occasion to change her mind con- 
cerning the day. 

Dinner was over, and she in Lizzie’s room was comb- 
ing out her long curls, and trying the effect of wearing 
them entirely behind her ears. Suddenly there was the 
sound of sleigh bells, which came nearer, until they 
stopped before the door. Lucy flew to the window, and 
in tones of intense anger and surprise, exclaimed, “Now, 
heaven defend us ! here is Cousin John’s old lumber sleigh 
and rackabone horse, with Berintha and a hair trunk, a 
red trunk, two bandboxes, a carpet-bag, a box full of 
herbs, and a pillow-case full of stockings. What does it 
all mean ? ” 

She soon found out what it all meant, for Berintha en- 
tered the room in high spirits. Kissing Lizzie, she next 
advanced toward Lucy, saying, “You didn’t expect me, 
I know; but this morning was so warm and thawing, 
that John said he knew the sleighing would all be gone 
by Saturday, so I concluded to come to-day.” 

Lucy was too angry to reply, and rushing from the 
room, she closed the door after her, with a force which 
fairly made the windows rattle. Berintha looked inqui- 
ringly at Lizzie, who felt inadequate to an explanation ; 
so Berintha knew nothing of the matter until she de- 
scended to the kitchen, and there learned the whole. 
Now, if Lucy had treated her cousm politely and good- 
naturedly, she would have saved herself much annoyance, 


220 


THE TIIANKSaiYlNG TAKTY. 


but on the contrary, she told her that she was neither ex- 
pected nor wanted there; that parties W'ere never in- 
tended for “ such old things ; ” and that now she was 
there, she hoped she would stay in her own room, unless 
she should happen to be wanted to wait on the table ! 

This speech, of course, exasperated Berintha, but she 
made no reply, although there was on her face a look of 
quiet determination, which Lucy mistook for tacit acqui- 
escence in her proposal. 

Five — six — seven — eight — struck the little brass clock, 
and no one had come except old Dr. Benton, who, being 
a widower and an intimate friend of the family, was invi- 
ted, as Lucy said, for the purpose of beauing grandma ! 
Lizzie, in crunson double-gown, and soft, warm shawl, was 
reclinmg on the sofa in the parlor, the old doctor mutter- 
ing about carelessness, heated rooms, late hours, &c. 
Grandma, in rich black silk and plain Quaker cap, was 
hovering near her favorite child, asking continually if she 
were too hot, or too cold, or too tired, while Lucy, in 
white muslin dress and flowmig curls, flitted hither and 
thither, fretting at the servants, or ordering grandma, and 
occasionally tappmg her sister’s pale cheek, to see if she 
could not coax some color into it. 

“ You’ll live to see it whiter still,” said the doctor, who 
was indignant at finding his patient down stairs. 

And where all this time was Berintha ? The doctor 
asked this question, and Lucy asked this question, while 
Lizzie replied, that “ she was in her room.” 

“ And I hope to goodness she’ll stay there,” said Lucy. 

Dr. Benton’s gray eyes fastened upon the amiable 
young lady, who, by way of explanation, proceeded to re- 
late her maneuvers for keeping “ the old maid ” from the 
party. 

We believe we have omitted to say that Lucy had 


COUSIN BERINTHA AND LUCY’S PARTY. 221 

some well founded hopes of being one day, together with 
her sister, heiress of Dr. Benton’s property, which was 
considerable. He was a widower, and had no relatives. 
He was also very intimate with Mr. Dayton’s family, al- 
ways evincing a great partiality for Lucy and Lizzie, and 
had more than once hinted at the probable disposal of his 
wealth. Of course, Lucy, in his presence, was all amia- 
bility, and though he was usually very far sighted, he but 
partially understood her real character. Something, how- 
ever, in her remarks concerning Berintha, displeased him. 
Lucy saw it, but before she had time for any thought on 
the subject, the door-bell rang, and a dozen or more of 
guests entered. 

The parlors now began to fill rapidly. Ere long, St. 
Leon came, and after paying his compliments to Lucy, he 
took his station between her and the sofa, on which Liz- 
zie sat. So delighted was Lucy to have him thus near, 
that she forgot Berintha, until that lady herself appeared 
in the room, bowing to those she knew, and seating her- 
self on the sofa, very near St. Leon. The angry blood 
rushed in torrents to Lucy’s face, and St. Leon, who saw 
something was wrong, endeavored to divert her mind by 
asking her various questions. 

At last he said, “ I do not see Miss Harcourt. Where 
is she ? ” 

“ She is not expected,” answered Lucy, carelessly. 

“Ah ! ” said St. Leon ; and Berintha, touching his arm, 
rejoined, “Of course you could not think Ada Harcourt 
would be invited here I ” 

“ Indeed ! Why not ? ” asked St. Leon, and Berintha 
continued : “ To be sure, Ada is handsome, and Ada is 

accomplished, but then Ada is poor^ and consequently 
can’t come ! ” 

“ But I see no reason why poverty should debar her 


222 


THE THAJSTKSGIVING PARTY. 


from good society,” said St. Leon ; and Berintha, with an 
exultant glance at Lucy, who, if possible, would have 
paralyzed her tongue, replied, “ Why, if Ada were pres- 
ent, she might rival somebody in somebody’s good opinion. 
Wasn’t that what you said. Cousin Lucy ? Please correct 
me, if I get 'wrong.” 

Lucy frowned angrily, but made no reply, for Berintha 
had quoted her very words. After a moment’s pause, she 
proceeded : “Yes, Ada is poor; so though she can come 
to the front door with a gentleman, she cannot go out 
that way, but must be led to a side door or back door ; 
which was it. Cousin Lucy ? ” 

“ I don’t know what you are talking about,” answered 
Lucy ; and Berintha, in evident surprise, exclaimed, “ Why, 
don’t you remember when Ada came here with a gentle 
man, — let me see, who was it? — well, no matter who 
’twas, — she came 'with a gentleman, — he was ushered into 
the parlor, while you took her into a side room, then mto a 
side passage, and out at the side door, kindly t, p ilin g her 
to beware of the gentleman in the parlor, who could want 
nothing good of sewing girls ! ” 

“You are very entertaining to-night,” said Lucy; to 
which Berintha replied, “ You did not think I could be 
so agreeable, did you, when you asked me to keep out of 
sight this evening, and said that such old fudges as grand- 
ma and I would appear much better in our rooms, ta- 
king snuff, and nodding at each other over our knitting 
work ? ” 

Lucy looked so distressed that Lizzie pitied her, and 
touching Berintha, she said, “ Please don’t talk any 
more.” 

At that moment supper was announced, and after it 
was over, St. Leon departed, notwithstanding Lucy’s ur- 
gent request that he would remain longer. As the street 


COUSm BERINTHA AND LUCY’S PARTY. 


223 


door closed after him, she felt that she would gladly have 
seen every other guest depart, also. A moody fit came 
on, and the party would have been voted a failure, had it 
not been for the timely interference of Dr. Benton and 
Berintha. Together they sought out any who seemed 
neglected, entertaining them to the best of their ability, 
and leavmg with every one the impression that they were 
the best natured couple in the world. At eleven o’clock, 
Lizzie, wearied out, repaired to her chamber. Her de- 
parture was the signal for others, and before one o’clock 
the last good-night was said, the doors locked, the silver 
gathered up, the tired servants dismissed, and Lucy, ha 
her sister’s room, was giving vent to her wrath against 
Berintha, the party, St. Leon, and all. 

Scolding, however, could do her no good, and ere long, 
throwing herself undressed upon a lounge, she fell asleep, 
and dreamed that grandma was married to the doctor, 
that Berintha had become her step-mother, and, worse 
than all, that Ada Harcourt was Mrs. St. Leon. 


CHAPTER IX. 

A WEDDING AT ST. LUKE’S. 

The day but one following the party, as Lucy was do- 
ing some shopping down street, she stepped for a moment 
into her dress-maker’s. Miss Carson’s, where she found 
three or four of her companions, all eagerly discussing 
what seemed to be quite an interesting topic. As Lucy 
entered, one of them, turning toward her, said, “ Oh, 
isn’t it strange? Or have ’nt you heard ? ” 


224 


THE THANKSGIVING PARTY. 


“ Heard what ? ” asked Lucy ; and her companion re- 
plied, “Why, Ada Harcourt is going to be married. 
Miss Carson is making her the most beautiful traveling 
dress, with silk hat to match ” 

“ Besides three or four elegant silk dresses,” chimed in 
another. 

“ And the most charming morning-gown you ever saw 
— apple green, and dark green, striped — and lined with 
pink sUk,” rejoined a third. 

By this time Lucy had sunk into the nearest chair. 
The truth had flashed upon her, as it probably has upon 
you ; but as she did not wish to betray her real emotions, 
she forced a little bitter laugh, and said, “ St. Leon, I 
suppose, is the bridegroom.” 

“ Yes ; who told you ? ” asked her companion. 

“ Oh, I’ve seen it all along,” answered Lucy, carelessly. 
“ He called with her once at our house ! ” 

“ But you did n’t invite her to your party,” said mis- 
chievous Bessie Lee, who loved dearly to tease Lucy Day- 
ton. “You didn’t invite her to your party, and so he 
left early, and I dare say went straight to Mrs. Har court’s 
and proposed, if he hadn’t done so before. Now, don’t 
you wish you’d been more polite to Ada ? They say he’s 
got a cousin south, as rich and handsome as he is, and if 
you’d only behaved as you should, who knows what might 
have happened ! ” 

Lucy deigned Bessie no reply, and turning to another 
young lady, asked, “ When is the wedding to be ? ” 

“Next Thursday morning, in the church,” was the an- 
swer ; and Bessie Lee again interposed, saying, “ Come, 
Lucy, I don’t believe you have ever returned Ada’s call, 
and as I am gomg to see her, and inquire all about that 
Cousin Frank, suppose you accompany me, and learn the 
particulars of the wedding.” 


A WEDDING AT ST. LUKE’S. 


225 


‘‘ Thank you,” said Lucy ; “ I don’t care enough about 
it to take that trouble ; ” and soon rising, she left the 
shop. 

If Lucy manifested so much indifference, we wot of 
some bright eyes and eager ears, which are willing to 
know the particulars, so we T\dll give them, as follows : 
When St. Leon left Mr. Dayton’s, it was ten o’clock, but 
notwithstanding the lateness of the hour, he started for 
the small brown house on “ Dirt Alley,” where dwelt the 
sewing woman and her daughter, who were both busy 
on, some work which they wished to finish that night. 
Ada had stopped for a moment to replenish the fire, when 
a knock at the door startled her. Opening it, she saw 
St. Leon, and in much sui-prise said, “ Why, I supposed 
you were at the party.” 

“ So I have been,” said he ; “ but I grew weary, and 
left for a more congenial atmosphere ; ” then advancing 
toward Mrs. Harcourt, he took her hand, saying, “ Mrs. 
Limvood, allow me to address you by your right name 
this_ evening.” 

We draw a vail over the explanation which followed — 
over the fifty-nine questions asked by Ada concerning 
Jenny — and over the one question asked by St. Leon, the 
answer to which resulted m the purchase of all those 
dresses at Miss Carson’s, and the well-founded rumor, that 
on Thursday morning a wedding would take place at St. 
Luke’s church. , 

Poor Lucy ! how disconsolate she felt ! St. Leon was 
passing from her grasp, and there was no help. On her 
way home, she three times heard of the wedding, and of 
Ada’s real name and former position in life, and each time 
her wrath waxed warmer and warmer. Fortunate was it 
for Berintha and grandma that neither made her appear- 
ance until tea time, for Lucy was in just the state when 
15 


226 


THE THAITKSGIVING PARTY. 


an explosive storm would surely have followed any re- 
mark addressed to her I 

The next day was the Sabbath, and as Lucy entered 
the church, the first object which met her eye was St. 
Leon, seated in the sewing woman’s pew, and Ada toler- 
ably though not very near him ! “ How disgusting ! ” 

she hissed between her teeth, as she entered her own 
richly cushioned seat, and opened her velvet-bound prayer 
book. Precious little of the sermon heard she that day, 
for, turn which way she would, she still saw in fancy the 
sweet young face of her rival ; and it took but a slight 
stretch of imagination to bring to view a costly house in 
the far off “ sunny south,” a troop of servants, a hand- 
some, noble husband, and the hated Ada the happy mis- 
tress of them all 1 Before church was out, Lucy was re- 
ally sick, and when at home in her room, she did not re- 
fuse the bowl of herb tea which Berintha kindly brought 
her, saying “ it had cured her when she felt just so.” 

lit 4: 

The monmig of the wedding came, and though Lucy 
had determined not to be present, yet as the hour ap- 
proached she felt how utterly impossible it would be for 
her to stay away ; and when at half past eight the doors 
were opened, she was among the first who entered the 
church, which in a short time was filled. Nine rang 
from the old clock in the belfry, and then up the broad 
aisle came the bridal party, consisting of Mr. and Mrs. 
Graham, Charlie and Anna, Mrs. Harcourt, or Mrs. Lin- 
Wood, as we must now call her, St. Leon, and Ada. 

“Was there ever a more beautiful bride?” whispered 
Bessie Lee ; but Lucy made no answer, and as soon as 


A WEDDING AT ST. LUKE’S. 


227 


the ceremony was concluded she hurried home, feeling 
almost in need of some more catnip tea I 

In the eleven o’clock train St. Leon with his bride and 
her mother started for New Haven, where they spent a 

delightful week, and then returned to S . A few 

days were passed at the house of Mr. Graham, and then 
they departed for their southern home. As we shall not 
again have occasion to speak of them in this story, we will 
here say that the following summer they came north, to- 
gether with Jenny and Cousin Frank, the latter of whom 
was so much pleased with the rosy cheeks, laughing eyes, 
and playful manners of Bessie Lee, that when he returned 
home, he coaxed her to accompany him ; and again was 
there a wedding in St. Luke’s, and again did Miss Carson 
make the bridal outfit, wishing that all New Orleans gen 
tlemen would come to S for their wives. 


CHAPTER X. 

A SUEPBISE. 

“ Reuben,” said Grandma Dayton to her son, one eve- 
ning after she had listened to the reading of a politidal 
article for which she did not care one fig, “ Reuben, does 
thee suppose Dr. Benton makes a charge every time he 
calls ? ” 

“ I don’t know,” said Mr. Dayton ; “ what made you 
ask that question ? ” 

“ Because,” answered grandma, — and her knitting nee- 
dles rattled loud enough to be heard in the next room — 
“ because, I think he calls mighty often, considering that 


228 


THE THANKSGIVING PARTY. 


Lizzie neither gets better nor worse ; and I think, too, 
that he and Berintha have a good many private talks ! ” 

The paper dropped from Mr. Dayton’s hand, and “ what 
can you mean ? ” dropped from his lips. 

“ Why,” resumed grandma, “ every time he comes, he 
manages to see Berintha alone ; and hain’t thee noticed 
that she has colored her hair lately, and left olF caps ? ” 

“ Yes ; and she looks fifteen years younger for it ; but 
what of that ? ” 

Grandma, whose remarks had all been preparatory to 
the mighty secret she was about to divulge, coughed, 
and then informed her son that Berintha was going to be 
married, and wished to have the wedding there. 

“ Berintha and the doctor ! Good !” exclaimed Mr. 
Dayton. “ To be sure, I’ll give her a wedding, and a 
weddmg dress, too.” 

Here grandma left the room, and after reporting her 
success to Berintha, she sought her grand-daughters, and 
communicated to them the expected event. When Lucy 
learned of her cousin’s intended marriage, she was nearly 
as much surprised and provoked as she had been when 
first she heard of Ada’s. 

Turning to Lizzie, she said, “It’s too bad! for of 
course we shall have to give up all hopes of the doctor’s 
money.” 

, “ And perhaps thee’ll be the only old maid in the fam- 
ily, afi:er all,” suggested grandma, who knew Lucy’s weak 
point, and sometimes loved to touch it. 

“And if I am,” retorted Lucy, angrily, “I hope I 
shall have sense enough to mind my own business, and 
not interfere with that of my grandchildren ! ” 

Grandma made no answer, but secretly she felt some con- 
scientious scruples with, regard to Lucy’s grandchildren ! 
As for Berintha, she seemed entirely changed, and flitted 


A SURmiSE. 


229 


about the house in a manner Avhich caused Lucy to call her 
“ an old fool, trying to ape sixteen.” With a change of feel- 
ings, her personal appearance also changed, and when she 
one day returned from the dentist’s with an entire set of 
new teeth, and came doTvm to tea in a dark, fashionably 
made merino, the metamorphose was complete, and grand- 
ma declared that she looked better than she ever had be- 
fore in her life. The doctor, too, was improved, and though 
he did not color his hair, he ordered six new shirts, a 
new coat, a new horse, and a pair of gold spectacles ! 

After a due lapse of time, the appointed day came, and 
with it, at an early hour, came Cousin John and Elizabeth 
Betsey, bringing with them the few herhs which Be- 
rintha, at the time of her removal, had overlooked. 
These Bridget demurely proposed should be given to 
Miss Lucy, “ who of late was much given to drinking 
catnip.” Perfectly indignant, Lucy threw the herbs, bag 
and all, into the nre, thereby filling the house with an 
odor which made the asthmatic old doctor wheeze and 
blow wonderfully, during the evening. 

A few of the villagers were invited, and when all was 
ready, Mr. Dayton brought down in his arms his white- 
faced Lizzie, who imperceptibly had grown paler and 
weaker every day, while those who looked at her as she 
reclined upon the sofa, sighed, and thought of a difierent 
occasion when they probably would assemble there. For 
once Lucy was very amiable, and with the utmost politeness 
and good nature, waited upon the guests. There was a 
softened light in her eye, and a heightened bloom on her 
cheek, occasioned by a story which Berintha, two hours 
before, had told her, of a heart all crushed fi^its youth, 
and aching on through long years of loneliness, but which 
was about to be made happy by a union with the only ob- 
ject it had ever loved! Do you start and wonder? 


230 


THE THANKSGIVING PABTT. 


! 

lit 


Have you not guessed that Dr. Benton, who, that night, 
for the second time breathed the marriage vow, was the 
same who, years before, won the girlish love of Berintha 
Dayton, and then turned from her to the more beautiful 
Amy Holbrook, findmg, too late, that all is not gold that 
glitters ? It is even so, and could you have seen how 
tightly he clasped the hand of his new wife, and how 
fondly his eye rested upon her, you would have said that, 
however long his affections might have wandered, they 
had at last returned to her, his first, best love. 




i 

CHAPTER XL \ 

LIZZIE. 


Gathered ’round a narrow coffin, 

Stand a mourning, funeral train, 

While for her, redeemed thus early. 

Tears are falling now like rain. 

Hopes are crushed and hearts are bleeding ; 

Drear the fireside now, and lone ; 

Bhe, the best loved and the dearest. 

Far away to heaven hath flown. 

Long, long, will they miss thee, Lizzie, 
Long, long days for thee they'll weep ; 
And through many nights of sorrow 
Memory will her vigils keep. 


In the chapter just finished, we casually mentioned that 
Lizzie, instead of growing stronger, had drooped day by 
day, until to all, save the fond hearts which watched her, 
she seemed surely passing away. But they to whom her 
presence was as sunlight to the flowers, shut their eyes to 


LIZZIE. 


231 


the dreadful truth, refusing to believe that she was leav- 
ing them. Oftentimes, during the long winter nights, 
would Mr. Dayton steal softly to her chamber, and kneel- 
ing by her bedside, gaze in mute anguish upon the wasted 
face of his darling. And when from her transparent 
brow and marble cheek he wiped the deadly night-sweats, 
a chill, colder far than the chiU of death, crept over his 
heart, and burying his face in his hands he would cry, 
“ Oh, Father, let this cup pass from me ! ” 

As sprmg approached, she seemed better, and the fath- 
er’s heart grew stronger, and Lucy’s step was lighter, and 
grandma’s words more cheerful, as hope whispered, “ she 
will live.” But when the snow was melted from off the 
hillside, and over the earth the warm spring sun was shi 
ning, when the buds began to swell and the trees to put 
forth their young leaves, there came over her a change so 
fearful, that with one bitter cry of sorrow, hope fled for- 
ever ; and again, in the lonely night season, the weeping 
father knelt and asked for strength to bear it when his 
best loved child was gone. 

“ Poor Harry ! ” said Lizzie one day to Anna, who was 
sitting by her, “ Poor Harry, if I could see him again; 
but I never shall.” 

“Perhaps you will,” answered Anna. “I wrote to 
him three weeks ago, telling him to come quickly.” 

“ Then he will,” said Lizzie ;“but if I should be dead 
when he comes, tell him how I loved him to the last, and 
that the thought of leaving him was the sharpest pang I 
suffered.” 

There were tears in Anna’s eyes as she kissed the cheek 
of the sick girl, and promised to do her bidding. After 
a moment’s pause, Lizzie added, “ I am afraid Harry is 
not a Christian, and you must promise not to leave him 


232 


THE THANKSGIVING PARTY. 


until he has a well-founded hope that again in heaven I 
shall see him.” 

Anna promised all, and then as Lizzie seemed exhausted, 
she left her and returned home. One week from that day 
she stood once more in Lizzie’s sick-room, hstening, for 
the last time, to the tones of the dying girl, as she bade 
her friends adieu. Convulsed with grief, Lucy knelt by 
the bedside, pressing to her lips one little clammy hand, 
and accusing herself of destroying her sister’s life. In 
the farthest corner of the room sat Mr. Dayton. He 
could not stand by and see stealing over his daughter’s 
face the dark shadow which falls but once on all. He 
could not look upon her, when o’er her soft, brown eyes 
the white lids closed forever. Like a naked branch in 
the autumn Avind, his whole frame shook with agony, and 
though each fibre of grandma’s heart was throbbing with 
anguish, yet, for the sake of her son, she strove to be 
• calm, and soothed him as she would a httle child. Be- 
rmtha, too, was there, and while her tears were dropping 
fast, she supported Lizzie in her arms, pushing back from 
her pale brow the soft curls, which, damp with the mois- 
ture of death, lay in thick rings upon her forehead. 

“ Has Harry come ? ” said Lizzie. 

The ansv/er was in the negative, and a moan of disap- 
pointment came from her lips. 

Again she spoke : “ Give him my bible, — and my curls ; 
— when I am dead let Lucy arrange them, — she knows 
how, — then cut them off, and the best, the longest, the 
brightest is for Harry, the others for you all. And tell 
— tell — tell him to meet — ^me in heaven — where I’m— go- 
ing — going.” 

A stifled shriek from Lucy, as she fell back, fainting, 
told that mth the last word, “ going Lizzie had gone to 
heaven ! 


LIZZIE. 


233 


An hour after the tolling bell arrested the attention of 
many, and of the few who asked for whom it tolled, 
nearly aR involuntarily sighed and said, Poor Harry 1 
Died before he came home ! ” 

* * ^ ^ ^ 

It was the night before the burial, and in the back par- 
lor stood a narrow coffin containing all that was mortal 
of Lizzie Dayton. In the front parlor Bridget and an- 
other domestic kept watch over the body of their young 
mistress. Twelve o’clock rang from the belfry of St. 
Luke’s church, and then the midnight sRence was bro- 
ken by the shriR scream of the locomotive, as the 
eastern train thundered into the depot. But the sen- 
ses of the Irish girls were too profoundly locked in sleep 
to heed that common sound ; neither did they hear the 
outer door, which by accident had been left unlocked, 
swing softly open, nor saw they the tall figure which 
passed by them into the next room, — ^the room where 
stood the coffin. 

Suddenly through the house there echoed a cry, so 
long, so loud, so despairing, that every sleeper started 
from their rest, and hurried with nervous haste to the 
parlor, where they saw Harry Graham, bendmg in wRd 
agony over the body of his darling Lizzie, who never be- 
fore had turned a deaf ear to his impassioned words of 
endearment. He had received his sister’s letter, and 
started immediately for home, but owing to some delay, 
did not reach there in time to see her afive. Anxious to 
know the worst, he had not stopped at his father’s house, 
Out seeing a light in Mr. Dayton’s parlors, hastened 
thither. Finding the door unlocked, he entered, and oii 
seeing the two servant girls asleep, his heart beat quickly 


234 


TUE THANKSGIVING PARTY. 


with apprehension. Still he was unprepared for the 
shock which awaited him, when on the coffin and her 
who slept witliin it his eye first rested. He did not faint, 
nor even weep, but when his friends came about him vith 
words of sympathy, he only answered, Lizzie, Lizzie, 
she is dead ! ” 

During the remainder of that sad night, he sat by the 
coffin pressing his hand upon the icy forehead until its 
coldness seemed to benumb his faculties, for when in the 
morning his parents and sister came, he scarcely noticed 
them ; and still the world, misjudging ever, looked upon 
his calm face and tearless eye, and said that all too lightly 
had he loved the gentle giifi, w^hose last thoughts and 
words had been of him. Ah, they knew not the utter 
wreck the death of that young girl had made, of the bit- 
ter grief, deeper and more painful because no tear-drop 
fell to moisten its feverish agony. They buried her, and 
then back from the grave came the two heart-broken men, 
the father and Harry Graham, each going to his own 
desolate home, the one to commune with the God who 
had given and taken away, and the other to question the 
dealings of that providence which had taken from him 
his aU. 

Days passed, and nothing proved of any avail to win 
Harry from the deep despair wliich seemed to have set- 
tled upon him. At length, Anna bethought her of the 
soft, silken curl which had been reserved for him. Quickly 
she found it, and taking with her the bible, repaired to 
her brother’s room. Twining her arms around his neck, 
she told him of the death-scene, of wliich he before had 
refused to hear. She finished her story by suddenly hold- 
ing to view the long, bright ringlet, which once adorned 
the fair head now resting in the grave. Her plan was 
successful, for bursting into tears, Harry wept nearly two 


LIZZIE. 


235 


hours. From that time, he seemed better, and was fre- 
quently found bathed in tears, and bending over Lizzie’s 
bible, which now was his daily companion. 

Lucy, too, seemed greatly changed. She had loved her 
sister as devotedly as one of her nature could love, and for 
her death she mourned sincerely. Lizzie’s words of love 
and gentle persuasion had not been without their effect, 
and when Mr. Dayton saw how kind, how affectionate and 
considerate of other people’s feelings his daughter had be- 
come, he felt that Lizzie had not died in vain. 

:{: 4: Hi * He 

Seven times have the spring violets blossomed, seven 
times the flowers of summer bloomed, seven times have the 
autumnal stores been gathered in, and seven times have the 
winds of winter sighed over the New England hills, since 
Lizzie was laid to rest. In her home there have been few 
changes. Mr. Dayton’s hair is whiter than it was of old, 
and tlie furrow^s on his brow deeper and more marked. 
Grandma, quiet and gentle as ever, knits on, day after 
day, ever and anon speaking of “ our dear little Lizzie, 
v/ho died years ago.” 

Lucy is still unmarried, and satisfied, too, that it should 
be so. A patient, self-sacrificing Christian, she strives to 
make up to her father for the loss of one over whose 
memory she daily weeps, and to wLose death she accuses 
herself of being accessory. Dr. Benton and his rather 
fashionable wife live in their great house, ride in their 
handsome carriage, give large dinner parties, play chess 
after supper, and then the old doctor nods over his eve- 
ning paper, while Berintha nods over a piece of embroide- 
ry, intended to represent a little dog chasing a butterfly, 


236 


THE THANKSGIVING PAETY. 


and which would as readily be taken for that as for any- 
thing else, and for anything else as that. 

Two years ago a pale young missionary departed to 
carry the news of salvation to the heathen land. Some 
one suggested that he should take with him a wife, but 
he shook his head mournfully, saying, “ I have one vdfe 
in heaven.” The night before he left home, he might 
have been seen, long after midnight, seated upon a grassy 
grave, where the flowers of summer were growing. 
Around the stone which marks the spot, rose bushes have 
clustered so thickly as to hide from view the words there 
written, but push them aside and you will read, “ Our 
darling Lizzie.” 


®ljx fjous^ 

AMONG THE MOUNTAINS. 


CHAPTER I. 

» 

UNCLE AMOS AND AUNT POLLY. 

Many years ago, before I was born, or you either, per- 
chance, gentle reader, there lived, far away among the tall 
mountains of New England, a sturdy farmer. Uncle Amos 
Carey, and his good wife Polly. This worthy couple, 
who seemed to be every body’s uncle and aunt, were 
known for many miles around, and their “ old red house 
among the mountains” was long the rendezvous for all 
the young mountaineers, who, with their rosy cheeked 
lasses, congregated there on all “ great days,” and on many 
days which were not great. 

There was some strong attraction about that low, red 
building. Perhaps it was because the waters of the well 
which stood in the rear were colder, or the grass in the 
little yard was greener, and the elm trees and lilac bushes 
taller there than elsewhere. Or it might have been be- 
cause Aunt Polly was deeply skilled in the mysteries of 
fortime-telling, by means of teacups and teargrounds. 

Many a time might the good dame have been seen, sur- 
rounded by half a dozen girls, all listening eagerly, while 
Aunt PoUy, with a dolefully grave expression about her 


288 THE OLD BED HOUSE AMONG THE MOUNTAINS. 

long nose, peered into some teacup, in the bottom of 
which lay a mass of tea-leaves in helter-skelter form. 
Slowly and solemnly would she unfold the shining future 
to some bright-eyed maiden, whose heart beat faster as 
the thoughts of a rich husband, fine house, and more 
dresses than she knew what to do with, were presented 
to her imagination. At other times, the end of Aunt 
Polly’s nose would perceptibly flatten, and her voice would 
become fearfully low, as, with an ominous shake of her 
head, she dove into the teacup of some luckless wight, 
who was known to have pilfered her grapes and plundered 
her water-melon patch ! On such occasions, dreadful was 
the* fortune given to the unfortunate ofiTender. A broken 
heart, broken leg, and most likely a broken neck, were 
awarded to him for his delinquencies. 

hTotwithstanding these occasional ill fortunes. Aunt 
Polly was a great favorite with the young folks, who, as 
we have said, were frequent visitors at “ the old red house 
among the mountains.” 


CHAPTER n. 

ALICE. 

Uncle Amos had one child, a daughter, named Alice. 
At a period longer ago than I can remember, Alice was 
fifteen years of age, and was as wild and shy a creature as 
the timid deer, which sometimes bounded past her moun- 
tain home, trembling at the rustle of every leaf and the 
buzz of every bee. There was much doubt whether Alice 
were the veritable child of Uncle Amos and Aunt Polly, 
or not. 


ALICE. 


239 


Kumor said that nearly fifteen years before, a fearful 
snow storm, such as the “ oldest inhabitant” had never 
before known, swept over the mountains, blocking up the 
roads, and rendering them impassable for several days. 
On the first night of the storm, about dusk, a slight fe- 
male form was seen toiling slowly up the mountain road, 
which led to Uncle Amos’ house. A man who was hurry- 
ing home met her, and anxious to know who she was, 
looked under her bonnet. Her face, as he afterwards de- 
scribed it, was very white and crazy-like, and very beau- 
tiful. Another person, a woman, had been with her knit- 
ting work to one of the neighbors, and was also returning 
home. Suddenly turning a corner in the road, she came 
face to face with the weary traveler, who seemed anxious 
to pass unnoticed. But the woman was inquisitive, and 
desirous of knowing who the stranger could be; so she 
asked her name, and where she was going. A glance of 
anger shot from the large black eye of the strange woman, 
but farther than that she deigned no reply ; and as she 
passed on, the questioner observed that she carried in her 
arms something which might or might not be an infant. 

The next day the storm raged so violently that neither 
man, woman, nor child were seen outside their own yards. 
For three days the storm continued with unabated fury, 
and several more days passed before the process of “ break- 
ing roads ” was gone through with, sufficiently to admit 
of a passage from one house to another. At the end of 
that time, one night, just after sunset, a whole sled load 
of folks drew up in front of Uncle Amos’ dwelling They 
could not wait any longer before visiting Aunt Polly, 
•whose smiling face appeared at the door, and called out, 
“Welcome to you all. I’s expecting you, and have got 
a lot of mince pies and doughnuts made.” 

So the dames and lasses bounded off from the ox-sled, 


240 THE OLD BED HOUSE AMONG THE MOUNTAINS. 

and running hastily into the house, were soon relieving 
themselves of their warm wrappings. There was so much 
talking and laughing among them, that the cloaks, shawls, 
and hoods were all put away before one of them exclaimed, 
“ Mercy sakes ! Here’s a cradle ! Is your cat sick, Aunt 
Polly ? But no, — as true as I live, it’s a little bit of a 
baby ! Where in this world did you get it. Aunt Polly ? ” 

But if Aunt Polly knew where she got it, she kept the 
knowledge to herself, and bravely withstood the question- 
ing and cross-questioning of her fair guests. 

“Ask me no questions, and I will tell you no lies,” said 
she. “ It is my child, and haven’t I as good a right to have 
a daughter as anybody ? ” 

“Yes, thee has,” said Dolly Dutton, a fair, chubby lit- 
tle Quakeress ; “ and well is it for the poor thing that it 
can call thee mother.” 

By this time the baby had been unceremoniously hus- 
tled out of its snug cradle by some of the young girls, who 
were all loud in their admiration of its beauty. 

“ What do you call it. Aunt Polly ? ” asked one. 

“ Alice,” was Aunt Polly’s quiet reply. 

At that moment the baby slowly unclosed its large eyes, 
and fixed them on the face of the young girl who held her, 
with a strange, earnest gaze. Up sprung the girl as if 
stung by a serpent. “ Gracious goodness ! ” exclaimed 
she, “ will somebody please take her. She’s got the ‘ evil 
eye’ I do believe, and looks for all the world like old 
Squire Herndon.” 

Aunt Polly hastily stooped dovm to take the child, but 
she did not stoop soon enough or low enough to hide from 
Dolly Dutton’s keen eye the deep flush which mantled 
her cheek at the mention of Squire Herndon. From that 
time Dolly’s mind was made up respecting Alice. She 
knew something which most of her neighbors did not 


ALICE. 241 

know, but as she chose to keep it a secret, so too will I, 
for a time, at least. 

Merrily sang the round tea-kettle in the bright fire 
which blazed on Aunt Polly’s clean hearth, and loudly 
hissed the strong green tea in the old black earthen tea- 
pot, while the long pine table, with its snowy cloth, 
groaned beneath its weight of edibles. The spirits of the 
company rose higher m proportion as the good cheer grew 
lower. Numerous were the jokes cracked at the expense 
of the little Alice, who, with her large, wild eyes, lay in 
her cradle bed, wholly unconscious of the wonder and 
gossip she was exciting. 

“ It’s of no use, Richard, for thee to quiz Aunt Polly 
concerning Alice, for she ain’t going to tell, and most 
likely has a good reason for her silence,” said Dolly Dut- 
ton to Mr. Richard Hallidon, who had the honor of being 
schoolmaster in the little village which lay snugly nestled 
at the foot of the mountain. 

“Neither would I give the worth of a quill pen to 
know,” said Richard, “ but I will stipulate with' Aunt 
Polly that as soon as Alice is old enough, she shall come 
to my school.” 

To this proposition Aunt Polly readily assented, and 
after much laughing and joking, and the disappearance 
of a large tin pan full of red apples, and a gallon or so of 
egg nog, the little party left for home. 

Ere the heavy tread of the oxen and the creaking of 
the cumbrous sled had died away in the distance. Uncle 
Amos was snugly ensconced in bed, and in the course of 
five minutes he was sending forth sundry loud noises 
which sounded like snoring ; but as the good man warmly 
contended that he never snored, (has the reader ever seen 
a man who would confess he did snore ? ) we will suppose 
the sounds to have been something else. Aunt Polly sat 
16 


242 THE OLD EED HOUSE AMONG THE MOUNTAINS. 

by tlie fire with the child of her adoption lying on her 
lap. Bending down, she closely scrutmized each feature 
of the small, white face, and as the infant opened its full, 
dark eyes, and fixed them inquiringly upon her, she mur- 
mured, “ Yes, she does look like Squire Herndon ; strange 
I never thought of it before. But deary me,” she con- 
tinued, “who ever did see such awful eyes? They fairly 
make me fidgety. There, shut them up,” said she, at the 
same time pressing down the lids over the eyes, which 
seemed to look so knowingly at her. 

The offending eyes being shut, the old lady continued 
her musing. “Yes,” thought she, “Alice has the Hern- 
don look. I wonder what the old squire would say if he 
knew all. I’ve half a mind to tell him, just to see what 
kind of a hurricane he would get up.” Then followed a 
long reverie, in the midst of which stood a large, hand- 
some castle, of which Ahce was the proud nominal mis- 
tress, and Aunt Polly the real one. 

By the time this castle was fully completed and fur- 
nished, Aunt Polly was fast nodding assent to every im- 
provement. Fainter and fainter grew the fire on the 
hearth, clearer and clearer ticked the old long clock in 
the corner, louder and louder grew the breathings of 
Uncle Amos, while lower and lower nodded Aunt Polly’s 
spectacles, till at last they dropped from the long, sharp 
nose, and rested quietly on the floor. How long this 
state of things would have continued, is not known, for 
matters were soon brought to a crisis by Uncle Amos, 
who gave a snore so loud and long that it woke the baby, 
Alice, whose uneasy turnings soon roused her sleeping 
nurse. 

“ Bless my stars ! ” said Aunt Polly, rubbing her eyes 
“ where’s my spectacles ? I must have had a nap.’? A 


ALICE. 


243 


few moments more, and silence again settled round the 
house, and its occupants were wandering through the 
misty vales of dreamland. 


CHAPTER III. 

LITTLE ITEMS. 

We pass rapidly over the first ten years of Alice’s life, 
only pausing to say that she throve well under the kind 
care of Uncle Amos and Aunt Polly, whom she looked 
upon as her parents, for she knew no others. As she in- 
creased in stature and years, her personal appearance was 
remarked and commented upon by the matrons of the 
mountains, as well as those of the village at the foot of 
the mountain. 

One would say, “ She and old Herndon looked as much 
alike as two peas,” while another would answer, “Yes, 
only Alice has got such strange, scornful eyes. They 
look at you as though they could read all your thoughts.” 
And now I suppose some reader will say, “ How did Al- 
ice look, and what was it about her eyes?” So here 
follows a description of Alice as she was at ten years 
of age. 

Naturally healthy, the strength of her constitution was 
greatly increased by the mountain air and exercise to 
which she was daily accustomed. Still, in form she was 
delicate, and Aunt Polly often expressed her fears that 
the poor child would never attain her height, which was 
five feet ten inches ! Alice’s features were tolerably reg- 
ular, and her complexion was as white and pure as the 
falling, snow. Indeed, there was something almost start- 


244 THE OLD EED HOUSE AMONG THE MOUNTAINS. 

ling in the marble whiteness of her face, contrasting, as it 
did, with the blackness of her hair, which hnng in short, 
tangled curls about her neck, forehead, and eyes. Those 
eyes we will speak of, ere long. We are not yet through 
with Alice’s hair, which cost her poor mother a world of 
trouble. Do what she might, it would curl. Soak it in 
suds as long as she chose, and as soon as it dried, it curled 
more than ever! What a pest it was! Aunt Polly 
couldn’t spend her time in curling hair, and as Alice did 
not know how, there seemed but one alternative — cut it 
off ; but this Alice would not suffer, so one hour every 
Sunday morning was devoted to combing and curling 
the really handsome hair, which during the week hung 
in wild disorder about her face, becoming each day more 
and more tangled and matted, until it was not strange 
that Alice thought she should surely die if it were combed 
more than once a week. 

'Now for those eyes. After all, there was nothing so 
very goblin-like about them. They were merely very 
large, very black, and very bright, and seemed, indeed, 
to look into the recesses of one’s soul, and pry out his in- 
most thoughts. There was a world of. pride and scorn 
beneath the long silken eyelashes, which seemed so sel- 
dom to be closed, for as one of the villagers said, “ Alice’s 
eyes were always looking, looking at you.” On occa- 
sions when Aunt Polly was engaged in her favorite occu- 
pation of fortune-telling, Alice’s eyes would flash forth 
her utter contempt of the whole matter, and many a 
young maiden, shamed by the scorn of the little wild girl, 
as she was called, would conclude not to have “ her for- 
tune told.” 

It was seldom, however, that Alice honored her moth- 
er’s company by her presence. , She seemed to prefer the 
woods, the birds, and flowers for her companions. Some- 


LITTLE ITEMS. 


245 


times she would steal away into the little bed-room, which 
joined her mother’s sitting-room, and there, unobserved, 
she would watch, through a hole in the door, the counte- 
nances and proceedings of the company around her 
mother’s tea-table. Often would some of the guests be 
startled by the fixed gaze of those large, black eyes, 
which seemed to look with such haughty pity on the 
farce which always followed one of Aunt Polly’s tea- 
drinkings. 


CHAPTER ly. 

FR Al^K. 

One bright summer afternoon when there was no 
school, Alice wandered out alone into the woods, pluck- 
ing here and there a wild flower, which she placed in the 
matted curls of her hair. At last, coming to a little open- 
ing in the trees, where a rude seat had been constructed, 
she sat down, and commenced singing, in clear, musical 
tones, the old familiar song, “Bonnie Doon.” 

She was just finishing the first stanza, when she was 
startled by the sound of another voice, chiming in with 
hers. Springing up, she looked round for the intruder. 

“Just cast those big eyes straight ahead, and you’ll 
see me ! ” called out some one in a loud, merry tone. 

Immediately Alice saw directly before her a roguish 
looking, handsome boy, apjiarently twelve or thirteen 
years of age. There was something in his air and dress 
which told that he was above the common order of mourn 
tameers. Alice suddenly recollected having heard that a 


246 THE OLD BED HOUSE AMOXG THE MOUNTAINS. 

widow lady, with one son, had recently moved into a 
pretty white cottage which stood about half a mile from 
her father’s, and she readily concluded that the lad be- 
fore her was Frank Seymour, whose beauty she had 
heard one of her school companions extol so highly. 
Her first impulse was to run, but the boy prevented her, 
by saying, “I’m Frank Seymour. I’ve just moved my 
mother up among these mountains. Now, who and 
what are you? You are a queer lookmg specimen, any 
way ! ” 

Rude as this speech was, it pleased Alice, and she an- 
swered, “ I am Alice Carey, and I don’t care if I am 
queer looking.” 

“ Alice Carey, are you ? That’s a pretty name,” said 
Frank, cracking liis fingers. “Alice Carey, — oh, I know, 
you are that old witch’s daughter that lives in the red 
house. I’ve heard of you. They say you are as wild as 
a wild-cat, — and yet I like you.” 

Alice stood for an instant as if spell-bound. Her mother 
had been called an old witch, and herself a wild-cat, in 
such a comical way, too, that for a time anger and mirth 
strove for the mastery. The former conquered, and ere 
Frank jvas aware of her intention, he received a blow in 
his face which sent him reeling against an old tree. When 
he recovered a standing posture, he observed Alice far 
aw^ay in the distance, speeding it over logs and stumps, 
briers and bushes, and he instantly started in pursuit. The 
chase was long, for Alice ran swiftly, but gradually her 
pursuer gained upon her. At length she came to a tall tree, 
whose limbs grew near the ground. With a cat-like 
spring she caught the low^er branch, and by the time 
Frank reached the tree, she w^as far up, near its top, cozily 
sitting on one of its boughs. In her hand she held a 
large worms’ nest, which she had broken from the tree. 


FEANK. 


247 


“Hallo, there, Master Frank!” said she. “Just as 
sure as you climb this tree I’ll shake these worms in your 
face ! ” 

If there was any living thing Frank feared, it was a 
worm, so he was obliged to give up his projected ascent. 

“ What a little spit-fire she is ! I’ll fetch her down, 
though,” said he. At the same time gathering uj) a hand- 
ful of stones, he called out, “ Miss Alice Carey, if you 
don’t come down, instanter. I’ll stone you down.” 

“ Hit me if you can,” was the defiant answer. 

Whizz went a stone through the air, but it missed its 
mark, and fell harmlessly to the ground. W'e must tell 
the truth, however, and say that Frank was very careful 
not to hit the white, unearthly face, which gleamed amid 
the dense foliage of the tree. 

“ Come, Alice,” said he, coaxingly, “ what’s the use of 
being perched up there like a raccoon or hyena. Come 
down, and let us make up friends, for really I do like 
you.” 

“ You called my mother an old witch,” said Alice. 

“ I know I did,” answered Frank, “ but I’m sorry for 
it. I heard she told fortunes, and I couldn’t think of any 
better name. But pray come down, and I won’t caU her 
so again.” 

Alice was finally persuaded, and rapidly descending the 
tree, she soon stood on the green turf beside Frank, who 
now eyed her from head to foot. 

“ I say, Alice,” continued he, “just throw away that 
odious worms’ nest, and act like somebody.” 

“ I shall do no such thing, Master Frank,” said Alice. 
“ I know now that you are afraid of worms, and if you 
come one inch nearer me. I’ll throw some on you 1 ” 

So Frank kept at a respectful distance, but he ex- 
erted himself to conquer Alice’s evident dislike of him. 


248 THE OLD BED HOUSE AMONG THE MOUNTAINS. 

and in five minutes’ time he succeeded, for it was not in 
her nature to withstand the handsome face, laughing eye, 
and more than all, the droll humor of Frank. 

The worms’ nest was gradually forgotten, and when 
Frank, pulling a hook from his pocket, said, “See here, 
look at my new history,” it was dropped, while Alice 
drew so near to Frank that, ere the hook was looked 
through, his hand was resting on her shoulder, and one 
of her snarled hlack curls lay amid his rich hrown hair. 

Before they parted that afternoon, they were sworn 
friends, and Frank had won from Alice an invitation to 
visit her mother the next day. “ You may as well invite 
me,” said he, “ for I shall come, any way.” 

That night Alice related her adventure to her mother, 
and spoke of Frank in terms so extravagant, that the next 
day, when he made his appearance, he met with a hearty 
welcome from Aunt Polly, who was perfectly delighted 
with the bright, handsome boy. After tea, he said, 
“ Come, Mrs. Carey, you must tell my fortune, and mi nd, 
now, tell me a good one.” 

“ Frank, Frank ! ” said Alice, quickly. 

“Well, what’s wanted of Frank, Frank?” asked the 
young gentleman. 

“I thought you despised the whole affair. I shan’t 
like you if you don’t,” answered Alice. 

“And so I do,” said Frank; “but pity sakes, can’t a 
man have a little fun ? ” 

“You’re a funny man,” thought Alice, but she said no- 
thing, and her mother proceeded to read Frank’s fortune 
from the bottom of the cup. A handsome wife, who was 
rich and a lady, too, was promised him. Frank waited 
to hear no more ; springing up, he struck the big blue 
cup from the hand of the astonished Aunt Polly, who ex- 
claimed, “What ails the boy I ” 


FRANK. 


249 


‘‘ What ails me ? ” repeated Frank ; “ nobody wants a 
rich lady for a wife. Why didn’t you promise me Alice ? 
I like her best of anybody, and she’s handsome, too, if 
she’d only comb out that squirrel’s nest of hers. I say, 
Alice,” continued he, “ why don’t you take better care 
of your hair ? Come to my mother’s, and she’ll teach 
you how to curl it beautifully. Will you let her come to- 
morrow, Mrs. Carey ? ” said he, turning to Aunt Polly. 
“ If you will, I will come for her, and mil bring you two 
teacups to pay for the one I broke. I’m sorry I did that, 
but I couldn’t help it.” 

Aunt Polly gave her consent to the visit, and the next 
day Frank joyfully introduced Alice to liis mother. From 
that time she was a frequent visitor at the house of Mrs. 
Seymour, w'ho was an accomplished woman, and took 
great pleasure in improving the manners and education 
of little Alice. Frank studied at home with his mother, 
and he begged so hard that his new friend might share 
his advantages, that Mrs. Seymour finally proposed to 
Aunt Polly to take Alice from school and let her study 
with Frank. To this plan Aunt Polly assented, and 
during the next six months Alice’s improvement was as 
rapid as her happiness was unbounded. 


CHAPTER V. 

WOMAN’S NATURE. 

When the spring came, there was a change of teachers 
in the village school. Richard Hallidon, who for twelve 
years had swayed the birchen rod, was dismissed, and as 
a more talented and accomplished individual was hired in 


250 THE OLD RED HOUSE AMONG THE MOUNTAINS. 

Ms stead, Mrs. Seymour concluded to send Frank there 
to school. Alice was his daily companion, and the inti- 
macy between them was a subject of much ridicule for 
their companions. 

Frank liked the fun of being teased about Alice, but 
she always declared that her preference for him, if she had 
any, arose from the fact that he was much better behaved 
than the other boys. Her affection was at last put to the 
test, in the following novel manner : 

As she and some of her companions were one night re- 
turning from school, they came suddenly upon a group 
of boys, who were calling out, “That’s it, Frank. How 
make her draw. Who-a, haw, get up. Tabby.” 

Coming near, they discovered a kitten with a cord tied 
round its neck. To this cord was attached Frank’s din- 
ner basket and books. “ He was tired of carrying them,” 
he said, “ and he meant to make kitty draw them.” 

“ Frank Seymour I ” said Alice, indignantly, “ let that 
cat go, this instant.” 

Frank stood irresolute. There was something in the 
expression of Alice’s eye which made him uncomfortable. 
He thought of the worms’ nest, but one of the boys called 
out, “ Shame, Frank ; don’t be afraid of her.” 

So Frank again attempted to make kitty draw the bas- 
ket. In a twinklmg, Alice pitched upon him. The boys 
gathered round and shouted, “A fight! a fight! How 
for some fun ! Give it to him, Alice ! That’s right, hit 
him another dig ! ” 

The contest was a hot one, and on Frank’s part a bloody 
one, for Alice seized his nose and wrung it until the blood 
gushed out ! He, however, was the strongest, and was 
fast gaining the advantage. One of the girls perceived 
this, and turning to her brother, said, “ Bob, help Alice ; 
don’t you see she’s getting the worst of it ? ” 


WOMAN’S NATURE. 


251 


Thus importuned, Bob fell upon Frank and belabored 
him so unmercifully that Frank cried for quarter. “ Shall 
I let him alone, Alice ? ” said Bob. “ I will do just as 
you say.” 

Alice’s only answer was a fierce thrust at Bob’s hair, 
hands full of which were soon floating on the air, like this- 
tles in the autumn time. 

“ I declare, Alice,” said Bob’s sister, “ I always knew 
you liked Frank, but I did not think you’d fight so like a 
tiger for him.” 

If this speech caused Alice any emotion, it was imper- 
ceptible, unless it were evinced by the increased brilliancy 
of her eyes, which emitted such lightning flashes, that du- 
ring their walk home Frank very modestly suggested to 
her the propriety of keeping her eyes shut, while going 
through the woods, lest the dried leaves and shrubs should 
take fire ! It is needless to say that thenceforth Frank 
and Alice were suffered to fight their own battles, undis- 
turbed by Bob or any of his companions. 


CHAPTER YI. 

SQUIRE HERNDON AN D IRA. 

Every village, however small, has its aristocrat, and 
so had the little village at the foot of the mountain. At 
the upper end of the principal street stood a large, hand- 
some building, whose high white walls, long green shut- 
ters, granite steps, and huge brass knocker, seemed to 
look down somewhat proudly upon theii; more humble 
neighbors. To the casual visitor or passing traveler, 


262 the old eed hofse among the mountains. 

this dwelling was pointed out as belonging to Squire 
Herndon. 

Squire Herndon was a man on whose head the frosts 
of sixty ^winters had fallen so heavily that they had 
bleached his once brown locks to a snowy whiteness. He 
was one who seemed to have outlived all natural affections. 
Long years had passed since he had laid the gentle wife 
of his youth to rest beneath the green willow, whose 
branches are now bent so low as almost to hide from view 
the low, grassy mound. By the side of that grave was 
another, the grave of Squire Herndon’s only daughter. 
She was fair and beautiful, but the destroyer came, and 
one bright morning in autumn, just as the hoar frost was 
beginning to touch the foliage with a brighter hue, she 
passed away, and the old man’s home was again desolate. 
Some of the villagers said of him in his affliction, “ It’s 
surely a judgment from heaven, to pay him for being so 
proud, and may be it will do him good ; ” but Squire 
Herndon was one whose morose nature adversity ren- 
dered still more sour. 

He had yet one child left, Ira, his first-born and only 
son. On him his hopes were henceforth centered. Ira 
should marry some wealthy heiress, and thus the family 
name would not become extinct. Squire Herndon be- 
longed to an English family, which was probably de- 
scended from one of those “three brothers who came 
over from England ” long time ago ! He was proud of 
his ancestors, proud of his wealth, his house, servants, 
and grounds, and had been proud of his daughter, but 
she was gone ; and now he was proud of Ira, whom he 
tried to make generally disagreeable to the villagers. 

But this he could not do, for Ira possessed too many 
of the social, ^lalities of his mother to be very proud 
and arrogant. ^At length the time came when he entered 


SQUIKE HERNDON AND IRA. 


253 


college at Amlierst. During his collegiate course, he be- 
came acquainted with a beautiful and accomplished girl, 
named Mary Calvert. That acquamtance soon ripened 
into love, and Squire Herndon was one day startled by a 
letter from Ira, saying that he was about to offer himself 
to a Miss Calvert, with whom he knew his father would 
be pleased. 

This so enraged Squire Herndon, that, without stopping 
to read more, he threw the letter aside, and for the next 
half hour paced his apartment, stamping, puffing, and 
foaming like a caged lion. At last it occurred to him that 
he had not read all his son’s letter, so catching it up, he 
read it through, and found added as a postscript, the fol- 
lowing clause : “ I forgot to tell you that Mary’s father is 
very wealthy, and she is his only child.” 

This announcement changed the old squire at once; 
his feelings underwent an entire revolution, and he now 
regretted that Ira had not written that he had proposed 
and was accepted. “But,” thought the squire, “of 
course she ’ll accept him ; she cannot refuse such a boy as 
Ira.” 

And yet she did ! With many tears she confessed her 
love, but said that far away over the seas was one to 
whom she had been betrothed almost from childhood ; he 
was kind and noble, and until she saw Ira Herndon, she 
had thought she loved him. Said she, “ I have given him 
so many assurances that I would be his, that I cannot re- 
call them. I love you, Ira, far better, but I esteem Mr. 
S., and respect myself so much that I cannot break my 
word.” hTo argument of Ira’s could induce her to 
change her resolution, and a few days before he was 
graduated, he saw his Mary, with a face white as marble, 
pronounce the vows which bound her to another. 


254 THE OLD RED HOUSE AMONG THE MOUNTAINS. 


CHAPTER VIL 

ALICE’S MOTHER. 

Three years after the closing incidents of the last chap- 
ter, Ira was practicing law near the eastern boundary of 
the state of New York. From his office windows he fre- 
quently noticed a beautiful young girl of not more than six- 
teen summers, who passed and repassed every day to and 
from school. Her plain calico frock, coarse linen apron, 
and cambric sun-bonnet, showed that she was not a child 
of wealth, and yet there was something about her face 
and appearance strangely fascinating to the young lawyer. 

He at length became acquainted with her, and found 
that her name was Lucy Edwards, that she was the adop- 
ted child of the family with whom she lived, and also the 
half sister of the famous Aunt Polly, among the moun- 
tains. Ira fancied that she resembled Mary Calvert, who 
was now lost to him forever, and ere he w^as aware of it, 
he was forming plans for the future, in all of which the 
young Lucy played a conspicuous part. Before the sum- 
mer was over, he had asked her to be his wife. She gave 
her consent willingly, for she was ambitious, and had long 
sighed for something better than the humble homo in 
which her childhood had been passed. 

When next Ira visited his father, he was accompanied 
by Lucy, who was intending to spend several days with 
her sister. On parting with her at the hotel, he told her 
that the day following he would seek an interview with 
his father, to whom he would acknowledge their engage- 
ment, and ask him to sanction their union. Of that in- 
terview between father and son, we will speak but little. 
Suffice it to say, that Squire Herndon, in his rage, almost 


ALICE’S MOTHER. 


255 


cursed his son for presuming to think of a poor, humble 
girl, whose sister disgraced her sex by telling fortunes, 
and finished his abuse by swearing to disinherit Ira the 
moment he should hear of his marrying Lucy Edwards. 
Ira knew his father too well to think of softening 
him by argument, so he rushed from his presence, and 
was soon on his way to the red house among the moun- 
tains, where Lucy was anxiously watching for him. 

As soon as she saw him coming up the mountain path, 
she ran eagerly to meet him. At one glance she saw that 
something was wrong, and urged him to tell her the 
worst. In as few words as possible, he related to her 
what had passed between himself and his father. When 
he finished speaking, Lucy burst into tears, and said 
mournfully, “ And so you will leave me, Ira ? I might 
have knowm it would be so.” 

Ira was touched, and laying his hand on Lucy’s dark 
locks, he vowed that she should be his, even at the cost 
of his father’s curse. When they reached the gate, Lucy 
said, “ I forgot to tell you that Polly has company — the 
Quakeress, Dolly Dutton — but you need not mind her.” 

After entering the house. Aunt Polly gradually led Ira 
to speak of the interview between himself and his father. 
By the time he had finished, Mrs. Carey’s wrath was wax- 
ing warmer and warmer. 

“ Ira Herndon,” she exclaimed, “ you are cowardly if 
you do not show your independence by marrying whom 
you please.” 

“ I intend to marry Lucy at some future time,” an- 
swered Ira. 

“ Fudge on some future time ! ” was Aunt Polly’s 
scornful answer; “why not marry her now? You’ll 
never have a better time. We’ll aU keep it a secret, so 
your old father wdll not cut you oflT. Amos will go for 


256 THE OLD RED HOUSE AMONG THE MOUNTAINS. 

Parson Landon, who will not blab ; and here to-night we 
will have the knot tied. What say you ? ” 

Ira hesitated. He did not care about being married so 
hurriedly, and could he have considered until the mor- 
row, he probably would have withstood all temptation ; 
but as it was, he was overruled, and finally gave his con- 
sent that the ceremony should take place that night. 
Parson Landon was accordingly sent for, and ere Ira had 
time to think what he was doing, he was the husband of 
Lucy Edwards, Mr. and Mrs. Carey and Dolly Dutton 
alone witnessing the ceremony. When it was completed, 
Aunt Polly said, “Now we must all keej) this a secret, 
for if it comes to Squire Herndon’s ear, he ’ll sartingly 
cut ’m ofi*.” 

The minister and Dolly readily promised silence, but 
Ira said “he cared not a farthing whether his father 
knew it or not, and thought seriously of telling him aU.” 

This announcement was received by Aunt Polly with 
such a burst of indignation, and by Lucy with such a 
gush of tears, that Ira was glad to promise that he, too, 
would say nothmg on the subject ; but the painful thought 
entered his mind, that possibly Lucy had married him 
more from a love of wealth than from love to him. 

In a few days he returned to the village where they 
resided, leaving Lucy with her sister for a time. At 
length he decided to remove to the village of C., in the 
western part of New York, where Lucy soon joined him. 
Here Alice was born. When she was about six months 
old, her father received a very lucrative offer, the accep- 
tance of which required that he should go to India. For 
himself, he did not hesitate, but his wife and child needed 
his protection. To take the mfant Alice to that hot 
clime, was to insure her death, and he had no wish that 
Lucy should remain behind. 


ALICE’S MOTHEE. 


257 


In this extremity, Lucy thought of Aunt Polly, and 
proposed that Alice should be left with her. After much 
consultation. Aunt Polly was written to, and, as she con- 
sented to take the child, Lucy started with Alice to place 
her under Mrs. Carey’s care. When within a mile of the 
village, she directed the stage driver to let her alight ; 
she did not wish to pass through the village, hut, striking 
into a circuitous path, she soon reached Uncle Amos’ 
house unobserved, save by the man and woman whom we 
mentioned in our second chapter. 

Aunt Polly regularly received remittances from Mr. 
Herndon for the support of his child, of whom he always 
spoke with much affection. Lucy, weak and frivolous in 
her nature, felt constrained to manifest some love for her 
offspring, but it was evident to Aunt Polly that she was 
heartily glad to be relieved of the care of little Alice. 

When Alice was five years of age, there came a letter 
bearing an ominous seal of black. With a trembling hand 
Aunt Polly opened it, and, as she had feared, learned that 
her young and beautiful sister, at the early age of twen- 
ty-two, was sleeping the sleep of death, far off, ’neath the 
tropical skies of India. That night the motherless Alice 
looked wonderingly into the face of Aunt Polly, whose 
tears fell thick and fast, as she clasped the awe-stricken 
child to her bosom, and said, “ You are mine forever, 
now.” Alice remembered this in after years, and wept 
over the death of a mother whom she never knew. 

17 


I 


258 THE OLD BED HOUSE AMONG THE MOUNTAINS. 


CHAPTER YIII. 

THE WANDEKEE’S R E T U E N . 

PiETEEN years had flown on rapid wing since Alice be- 
came an inmate of the old red house among the moun- 
tains. As yet she had no suspicion that she was other 
than the child of Uncle Amos and Aunt Polly. Under 
their guardianship, and the watchful supervision of Mrs. 
Seymour, she had grown into a tall, beautiful girl of fif- 
teen. The childish predilection which she had early 
shown for Frank, had now ripened into a stronger feeling, 
and, although she would scarcely acknowledge it, even to 
herself, there was not, in all the wide world, an individ- 
ual who possessed so much influence over the shrinking, 
timid mountain girl, a^ did Frank, who was now verging 
on to eighteen. 

Some changes have taken place since we last looked 
upon the boy and girl, but we will again introduce them 
to our readers, at the respective ages of eighteen and fif- 
teen. It was a mild September afternoon. The long line 
of mountain toj)s was enveloped by a blue, hazy mist, 
. while the dense green of the towering forest trees was 
interspersed here and there by leaflets of a brighter hue, 
betokening the gradual but sure approach of nature’s sad 
decay. 

In the little vine-wreathed portico of Uncle Amos’ 
house, are seated our old friends, Frank and Alice. He 
has changed much since we last saw him, and were it not 
for the same roguish twinkle of his hazel eyes, we should 
hardly recognize the mischievous school-boy, Frank, in 
the tall, handsome youth before us. During the last year 
he has been in .college, but his vacations have all been 


THE wanderer’s RETURN. 


259 


spent at home, and as his mother half reprovingly said, 
“ three-fourths of his time was devoted to Alice.” 

The afternoon of which we are speaking had been spent 
by them alone, for Aunt Polly was visiting in the village. 
Frank was just wishing she would delay her coming un- 
til nine o’clock, when she was seen hurrying toward the 
house at an astonishingly rapid rate for her, for she was 
rather asthmatic. 

As soon as she had reached home, and found breath to 
speak, she said, “Alice, did you know your — did you know 
Squire Herndon’s son Ira had come home from the Indies ? ” 

“Yes, I heard so to-day,” said Alice quietly, “and I’m 
glad, too, for ’tmll cheer up his father, who is sick, and 
seems very lonely and unhappy.” 

“ He ought to be lonely,” said Frank. “ In my opin 
ion he is a hard old customer ; and yet I always speak to 
the old gentleman when I meet him, for he is very re- 
spectful to me. But is n’t it queer, mother wUl never let 
me say a word against the old squire. I sometimes tease 
her by saying that she evidently intends, sometime, to 
become Mrs. Herndon. If she does, you and I, Alice, 
win be Herndons too.” 

Alice was about to reply, when Aunt Polly prevented 
her by saying, “ I can tell you, Mr. Seymour, that Alice 
win be a Herndon before your mother is.” 

Alice looked wonderingly at Aunt Polly, while Frank 
said, “ Which will she marry, the old squire, or the re- 
turned Indian ! Let me fix it. Alice marry the squire 
— my mother marry his son, and then Alice wifi be my 
grandmother ? ” 

He was rattling on, when Aunt PoUy stopped him, and 
going up to Alice, she wound her arms about her, and in 
trembling tones said, “ Afice, my child, my darling, you 


200 THE OLD EED HOUSE AMONG THE MOUNTAINS. 

must forgive me for having deceived you so. You are 
not my child ! ” 

“ !Yot your child! ” said Alice, wildly. 

“ Not your child I ” echoed Frank, starting up. 
“ Whose child is she, then ? Speak; tell us quickly ! ” 

“ Her father is Ira Herndon, and her mother was my 
half sister, Lucy,” answered Aunt Polly. 

Heavily the yielding form of Alice sank into the arms 
of Frank, who hore the fainting girl into the house, and 
placed her upon the lounge. Then turning to Aunt Polly, 
he said, “ Is what you have told us true ? and does Mr. 
Herndon own his daughter ? ” 

“ It’s all true as the gospel,” answered Mrs. Carey, 
and Mr. Herndon is comhig this night to see her.” 

Frank pressed one kiss on AUce’s wliite lips, and then 
hurried away. Bitter thoughts were crowding upon him 
and choking his utterance. WTiy was he so affected ? 
Was he sorry that Alice belonged to the proud race of 
Herndons, — that wealth and family distinction were sud- 
denly placed before her ? Yes, he was sorry, for now was 
he fearful that his treasure would he snatched from him. 
He understood the haughty pride of Squire Herndon, 
and he feared that his son, too, might he like him, and 
refuse his Alice to one so obscure as Frank fancied him- 
self to be. 

On reacliing home, he rushed into the little parlor in 
which his mother was sitting, and throwing himself upon 
the sofa, exclaimed passionately, “ Mother, I do not wish 
to return to college. It is. of no use for me to try to be 
anything, now.” 

“ Why, Frank,” said his mother, in much alarm, “ what 
has happened to disturb you ? ” 

“ Enough has happened,” answered Frank, “ Alice is 


THE wanderer’s RETURN. 


261 


ricli, — an heiress ; and, worse than all, she is old Squire 
Herndon’s grand-daughter ! ” 

“ Squire Herndon’s grand-daughter ! ” repeated Mrs. 
Seymour, ‘‘ How can that he ? ” 

“ Why, she is Mr. Ira Herndon’s daughter, and he has 
come to claim her,” said Frank. 

White as marble grew the cheek and forehead of Mrs. 
Seymour, and her voice was thick and indistinct, as she 
said, “ Ira Herndon come home, — and Alice’s father too ? ” 

Frank darted to her side, exclaiming, “ Why, mother, 
what is the matter ? You are as cold and white as Alice 
was when they told her. Are you, too, Ira Herndon’s 
daughter ? ” 

“No, no,” said Mrs. Seymour, “ but I know. Mr. Hern- 
don well. Do not ask me more now. Be satisfied when 
I tell you that if he is the same man he used to be, you 
need have no fears for Alice. Now leave me; I would 
be alone.” 

Frank obeyed, wondering much what, had come over 
his mother. Does the reader wonder, too ? Have you 
not suspected that Mrs. Seymour was the Mary Calvert, 
who, years ago, gave her hand to one, while her heart 
belonged to Ira llerndon ? Her story is soon told. She 
had respected her husband, and had struggled hard to 
conquer her love for one whom it were a sin to think of 
now. In a measure she succeeded, and when, four years 
after her marriage, she stood by the open grave of her 
husband, she was a sincere mourner, for now she was 
alone in the world, her father having been dead some 
time. He had died insolvent, and when her husband’s 
estate was settled, it Was found that there was just 
enough property left to support herself and son com- 
fortably. 

A few years after, she chanced to be traveling through 


262 THE OLD EED HOUSE AMONG THE MOUNTAINS, 

the ■western part of the state, and curiosity led her to 
the village where she knew Squire Herndon resided. 
She was pleased with the romantic situation of the place, 
and learning that the neat, white cottage among the 
mountains was for sale, she purchased it, and soon after 
removed thither. This, then, was the history of the wo- 
man whose frame shook with so much emotion at the men- 
tion of Ira Herndon, 


CHAPTER IX, 

FATHER AND CHILD, 

Night had settled around the old red house among the 
mountains, where Alice was listening eagerly, while Aunt 
Polly recounted the incidents we have already related. 
Suddenly a shadow darkened the casement, through which 
the moon was pouring a flood of silvery light. A heavy 
footfall echoed on the little piazza, and in a moment Ira 
Herndon stood within the room, transfixed with surprise 
at the beautifal vision which Aunt Polly presented to him, 
saying, “ This is Alice, your daughter. I have loved her 
as my own ; but take her, — she is yours.” 

Something of Alice’s old timidity returned, and she 
was half inclined to spring through the open door, but 
when she ventured at length to lift her eyes to the face 
of the tall, fine looking man before her, a thrill of joy 
and pride ran through her heart, and twining her soft, 
white arms around the stranger’s neck, she murmured, 


FATHER AWD CHILD. 


263 


“Am I, indeed, your daughter, — and may I call you 
father ? ” 

“ God bless you, Alice, my child, my daughter,” was 
the answer, as Ira folded his newly found treasure to his 
bosom. At that moment Uncle Amos entered, and saw 
at a glance how matters stood. Tear after tear rolled 
down his sun-burnt cheek, as taking the hard hand of his 
faithful old wife, he said, “Yes, Polly, she will love him 
and go with him, and we shall be left alone in our old 
age.” 

Alice released herself from her father’s embrace, and 
going up to the weeping old man, fondly caressed him, 
saying, “ I will always love you, and call you father, too, 
for a kind, devoted parent you have been to me for fifteen 
years, when I knew no other.” 

“Nor need you ever be separated,” said Mr. Herndon, 
“ if you will go with Alice. I have wealth enough for us 
all, and will gladly share it with you.” 

To this generous offer Mr. and Mrs. Carey made no re- 
ply, and Ira continued : “ I have to-day told my father 
all, and I regret I did not do so years ago.” 

“ What did he say ? ” asked Aunt Polly, quickly. 

“He said not a word, save that he wished he had 
known it before,” answered Mr. Herndon. “ He seems 
quite ill, and I am fearful his days are numbered.” 

At a late hour that night Mr. Herndon took leave of 
his daughter, promising to iutroduce her to her grand- 
father as soon as possible. 


264 THE OLD BED HOUSE AMONG THE MOUNTAINS. 


CHAPTER X. 

THE OLD man’s DEATH-BED. 

High up in one of the lofty chambers of the Herndon 
mansion, an old man lay dying. What mattered it now, 
that the bedstead on which he lay was of the costliest 
mahogany, or the sheets of the finest linen ! Death was 
there, waiting eagerly for his expected victim. Mem- 
ory was busily at work, and far back through a long era 
of by-gone years, arose a dark catalogue of' sin, which 
made the sick man shudder as he tossed from side to side 
in his feverish delirium. “ Away, away,” he Avould shout, 
with maniacal frenzy. “ I did not turn you all from my 
door. I only told my servants to do it. And you, star- 
ving, weeping women, I only did what thousands have 
done when I sold your all, and imprisoned your husbands 
for debt. Away ! I say. Don’t taunt me with it now.” 
Then his manner would soften, and he would call out, 
“ But stay, — is it money you want? Take it ; — ^take all 
I’ve got, and let that atone for the past.” 

At this juncture Ira entered the room, on his Tetum 
from visiting his daughter. He was greatly alarmed at 
the change in his father, but learning that a physician had 
been sent for, he sat down, and endeavored to soothe his 
father’s excitement. He succeeded, and when the phy- 
sician arrived, he found his patient sleeping quietly. 
From this sleep, however, he soon awoke, fully restored 
to consciousness. 

Turning to his son, he said, “ Ira, did n’t you teU me 
she was your child ? ” 

Mr. Herndon answered in the affirmative, and the old 


THE OLD MAN’S DEATH-BED. 


265 


man continued : “ I would see her ere I die. Send for 
her quickly, for the morning will not find me here.” 

Ira arose to do his father’s bidding, when he added, 
“And, Ira, I must make my will; send for the proper 
persons, wiU you ? ” 

Ira saw that his father’s orders were executed, and then 
returned to his bedside to await the coming of Alice. 
She was aroused from a sound sleep, and told that her 
grandfather was dying, and would see her. Hurriedly 
dressing herself, she was soon on her way to the village. 
As she entered her grandfather’s house, she looked 
around her in amazement at the splendor which sur- 
rounded her. 

As she advanced into the sick-room. Squire Herndon 
fixed his dark, bright eye upon her, and said, “ AUce, 
they tell me you are my grand-daughter ; I would I had 
known it before ; but come nearer to me now, and let me 
bless you.” 

Alice knelt by the bedside of the white-haired man, 
whose hand was laid amid her silken curls, as he uttered 
a blessing upon the fair young girl. When she arose, he 
said to his son, “N’ow I must make my will. Call in the 
lawyer.” 

The words caught Alice’s ear, and involuntarily she 
sprang back to her grandfather, and kissing his feverish 
brow, said, “ Dear grandpa, I wish I could tell you some- 
thing, — could ask you something.” 

“ What is it, my child ? ” asked her grandfather. “ Let 
me know your request, and it shall be granted.” 

* Alice blushed deeply, for she felt that her father’s eye 
was upon her, but she unhesitatingly said, “You have 
seen Frank, grandfather, — you know him ? ” 

“Yes, yes,” said the squire. “I know him and like 
him, too. I understand you, Alice ; I will do right.” 


266 THE OLD RED HOUSE AMONG THE MOUNTAINS. 

Alice agam kissed him, and then quitted the apartment, 
in which, for the next half hour, was heard the scratch- 
ings of the lawyer’s pen, and the faint tones of the dying 
one, as he dictated his will. 


CHAPTER XI. 

THE RECOGNITION. 

Softly from the rosy east came the glorious king of 
day, shedding light and warmth over hill and dale, river 
and streamlet, tree and shrub. In the same room where 
he had passed away. Squire Herndon lay in a long, eter- 
nal sleep. The servants held their breath, and whispered 
as they trod softly through the darkened rooms, as if 
fearful of disturbing the deep slumbers of the dead. 

The villagers met together, and their voices were sub- 
dued, as they said, one to the other, “ Squire Herndon is 
dead.” Yes, Squire Herndon was dead, and little chil- 
dren paused in their play as the solemn peal of the village 
bell rang out on the clear autumn air, wakening the 
echoes of the tall blue mountains, and dying away down 
the bright green valley. The knell was repeated again 
and again, and then came the strokes, louder, faster, and 
the children counted until they were tired, for seventy- 
five years had the old man numbered. At length the 
sounds ceased, and the children went on with their noisy« 
sports, forgetful that death was among them. 

In the Herndon mansion many whispered consultations 
were held, as to how the body should be arranged for 
burial. It was finally decided to send for Mrs. Seymour. 


THE EECOGNITEOW. 


267 


“ She is tasty and genteel,” said one, “ and knows how 
such things should he done.” 

Mrs. Seymour did not refuse, for she felt it her duty to 
go ; and yet she would much rather have braved the 
storm of battle than enter that house. She, however, 
bade the messenger return, saying she would soon follow. 
When alone with her thoughts, she for an instant wavered. 
How could she go ? How again stand face to face with 
the only man she ever loved? Yet she did go, trusting 
that nineteen years had so changed her that she would 
not be recognized. 

Under her directions, everything about the house was 
done so quietly, that there was nothing to grate on the 
ear of him who sat alone in the large, silent parlor. He 
intuitively felt that some kindred spirit was at work there, 
and calling Alice to him, he asked “ who the lady was 
that seemed to be superintending affairs so well.” 

“ Mrs. Seymour,” answered Alice. 

“ Mrs. Seymour,” repeated her father, as if dreamily 
trying to recall some past event. 

“Yes, Mrs. Seymour,” said Alice. “She is Frank’s 
mother, and a widow.” 

In an adjoining room, Mrs. Seymour, with a beating 
heart, listened to the tones of that voice which she had 
never hoped to hear again. Earnestly did she wish to 
see the face of one whose very voice could affect her so 
powerfully. Her wish was gratified, for at that moment 
Alice opened the door, and Mrs. Seymour’s eyes fell upon 
the features of him whose remembrance she had so long 
cherished. She was somewhat disappointed, for the trop- 
ical suns of fifteen years had embrowned his once white 
forehead, and a few gray hairs mingled with the dark 
locks which lay around his brow. 

Alice was surprised at the wild, passionate embrace 


268 THE OLD EED HOUSE AMONG THE MOUNTAINS. 

whicli Mrs. Seymour gave her, as leading her to the win- 
dow, she looked wistfully in her face, and said, “ My dear 
Alice, tenfold more my child than ever.” 

Alarmed at the increased paleness of her friend, Alice 
started forward, and said, “ You are sick, faint, Mrs. Sey- 
mour. Let me call Mr. Herndon, — I mean my father.” 

But Mrs. Seymour was not faint, and she endeavored 
to prevent Alice from calling her father, but in vain. Al- 
ice called him, and he came. His daughter stood in front 
of Mrs. Seymour, whose cheeks glowed and whose eyes 
sparkled with the intensity of her feelings, as she met the 
searching glance of Ira Herndon. 

He recognized her, — ^knew, as if by instinct, that he 
again beheld Mary Calvert ; but the fever of youth no 
longer burned m his veins, so he did nothing foolish. He 
merely grasped her hand, exclaiming, “ Mary — Mary Cal- 
vert, — Mrs. Seymour! God be praised, we have met 
I again ! ” 


CHAPTER Xn. 

THE FUNERAL. 

Two days passed. The third came, and again over hill 
and valley floated a funeral knell. Groups of villagers 
moved with slow and measured tread toward the late res- 
idence of Squire Herndon. Forth from many a mountain 
cottage and many a village dwelling came the inhabitants, 
old and young, rich and poor, to attend the fimeral. 

On a marble-topped table stood the rich, mahogany 
coffin, in which lay the remains of one who for many 
years had excited the admiration, envy, jealousy, and har 


THE FUISTEEAL. 


269 


tred of the people, many of whom now trod those spa- 
cious halls for the first time in their lives. Near the cof- 
fin sat Ira. At him the villagers gazed anxiously, hut 
their eyes soon moved on until they rested upon the fair 
Alice, who had been so suddenly transformed from the 
humble-mountain girl into the wealthy heiress. 

Uncle Amos and Aunt Polly were there, too. Ira had 
kindly and thoughtfully invited them to take seats with 
himself and daughter, as mourners for the deceased. 
Aunt Polly appeared arrayed in a dress of costly black 
silk, and shawl of the same texture. They were the gift 
of Ira, and for fear of being disputed, we will not tell how 
many times the good lady managed to move so that the 
rustle of her garments might be heard by her neighbors, 
who remarked, that “Aunt Polly seemed a plaguy sight 
more, stuck up than Alice ; ” and yet the benevolent ma- 
tron looked down complacently upon them, thinking how 
kind and amiable she was, not to feel above them ! 

At last the funeral services were over. Down one 
street and up another moved the long line of carriages and 
people on foot, to the grave-yard, where was an open 
grave, into which the body was lowered, “ earth to earth, 
ashes to ashes, dust to dust.” 

As the company were leaving the church-yard, Alice 
suddenly found herself by the side of Frank. She had 
seen him but once before since her grandfather’s death, 
and then she had won from him a promise that after the 
funeral he would return \vith her to what henceforth 
would be her home. She now reminded him of his prom- 
ise, at the same time introducing him to her father, whom 
she observed closely, to see what impression Frank would 
make. It was favorable, for no one could look at Frank 
and dislike him. Rather unwillingly he consented to ac- 


270 THE OLD RED HOUSE AMONG THE MOUNTAINS. 

company them home. He could not imagine what Alice 
wanted of him, but was not long kept in doubt. 

The will of Squire Herndon was soon produced and read. 
The old man had intended to bequeath most of his prop- 
erty to his son, but this Ira would not sufier. He had 
more than he knew what to do with, already, he said, and 
greatly preferred that his father should give it aU to Al- 
ice, or (blvide it between her and Frank, as he saw proper. 
Accordingly, after bestowing twenty-live thousand dol- 
lars in charitable purposes, the remainder of his property, 
amountmg to a hundred and fifty thousand dollars, was 
equally divided between Frank and Alice, Ira being ap- 
pointed their guardian. 

Frank at first declined the wealth so unexpectedly 
placed before him, but Alice and her father finally over- 
ruled him, the latter saying, playfully, “ You may as well 
take as a gift from the grandfather what you would prob- 
ably sometune receive with the grand-daughter.” So 
Frank was finally persuaded; but he bore his fortune 
meekly, and when next he returned to college, no one 
would have suspected that he was the heir of seventy-five 
thousand dollars. 


CHAPTER XHL 

“all’s well THAT ENDS WELL.” 

FTot long after Frank returned to college, Alice, also, 
was sent to Troy, X. Y., to complete her education. 
Soon after she left, her father invited Mr. and Mrs. Ca- 
rey to share with him his house, but they had good sense 
enough to know that they would be far happier m their 


ALL’S WELL THAT ENDS WELL.” 


2n 


cc 


own mountain home, so Ira settled upon them an annuity 
for the remainder of their lives. 

When the warm sun of an early spring had melted the 
ice from the brooks and the snow from off the hillside, there 
was a wedding at the little white cottage. Parson Lan- 
don again officiated, and Ira Herndon was the bridegroom, 
but the bride this time was our friend, Mrs. Seymour, 
whose face, always handsome, seemed suddenly renovated 
with a youthful bloom and loveliness. Aunt Polly, too, 
was present, and declared that the ceremony gave her 
more satisfaction than did the one which took place sev- 
enteen years before, beneath her own roof. After the 
wedding, Mrs. Seymour, now Mrs. Herndon, removed to 
her husband’s home in the village. The villagers hailed 
her presence among them as a new era, in which they 
could hope occasionally to visit at the “ great house,” as 
they were in the habit of calling Squire Herndon’s former 
residence. 

We now pass rapidly over a period of little more than 
three years, during which time Frank was graduated, with 
honor, of course, and returning home, commenced the 
study of law. We next open the scene on a bright eve- 
ning m October, in which thp little village at the foot of 
the mountain was in a state of great excitement. This 
excitement was not manifest in the streets, buT in-doors , 
band-boxes were turned inside out, drawers upside down, 
as daughter and mother tried the effect of caps, ribbons, 
flowers, &G. 

The cause of all the commotion was this : It was the 
bridal night of Alice Herndon, at whose request nearly all 
the villagers were invited to be present. At eight o’clock 
she descended to the crowded parlors, and in a few mo- 
ments the words were spoken which transformed her 
from Alice Herndon into Alice Seymour. 


272 THE OLD EED HOUSE AMONG THE MOUNTAINS. 

But little more remains to be said. Alice and Frank 
resided at home, with their parents, w^ho had gained the 
respect and love of the villagers by their many unosten- 
tatious acts of kindness and real benevolence. And now, 
lest some curious reader should travel to New England 
for the purpose of discovering whether this story really 
be true, we will say that the events here narrated occur- 
red so long ago that there is probably nothing left save 
the cellar and well to mark the spot w^here once stood 
“ the old red house among the mountains.” 


V 

c 






CHAPTER I. 

REMINISCENCES. 

. O’er Lake Erie’s dark, deep waters, — across Ohio’s 
broad, rich lands, and still onward, among the graceful 
forest trees, gushing springs, and fertile plains of Ken- 
tucky, rests in quiet beauty, the shady hillside, bright 
green valley, and dancing waterbrook, known as Glen’s 
Creek. K o stately spire or glittering dome point out the 
spot to the passing traveler, but under the shadow of the 
lofty trees, stands a large brick edifice, which has been 
consecrated to the worship of God. There, each Sabbath, 
together congregate the old and young, the lofty and the 
lowly, bond and free, and the incense which from that al- 
tar ascends to heaven is not the less pure, because in that 
secluded spot the tones of the Sabbath bell never yet were 
heard. Not far from the old brick church are numerous, 
time stained grave-stones, speaking to the living of the 
pale dead ones, who side by side lie sleeping, unmindful 
of the wintry storm or summer’s fervid heat. 

A little farther down the hill, and near the apple tree, 
whose apples never get ripe, stands a low white building, 
— the school house of Glen’s Creek. There, for several 
years, “ Yankee schoolmasters,” one after another, have 
tried by turns the effect of moral suasion, hickory sticks, 


274 


glen’s ceeek. 


and leathern straps on the girls and boys who there as- 
semble, some intent upon mastering the mysteries of the 
Latin reader, and others thinking wistfully of the minia- 
ture mill-dam and fish-pond in the brook at the foot of the 
hill, or of the play-house under the maple tree, where the 
earthens are each day washed in the little “ tin bucket,” 
which serves the treble purpose of dinner-pail, wash-bowl, 
and drinking-cup. 

But not with Glen’s Creek as it now is has oui story 
aught to do, although few have been the changes since, in 
the times long gone, the Indian warrior sought shelter 
from the sultry August sun, ’neath the boughs of the shady 
buckeye or towering honey locust, which so thickly stud 
the hillside of Glen’s Creek. Then, as now, the first 
spring violet blossomed there, and the earliest crocus grew 
near the stream whose waters sang as mournfully to the 
dusky maiden of the forest, as they since have to the fair 
daughter of the pale-face. 

The incidents about to be narrated are believed to have 
taken place near the commencement of the nineteenth 
century, when the country of Kentucky, from Lexington 
to Louisville, was one entire forest, and when, instead of 
the planter’s handsome dwelling, now so common, there 
was only the rude log hut surrounded, perhaps, by a few 
acres of half cleared land. - Brave, indeed, must have been 
the heart of the hardy yeoman, who, forsaking the home 
of his fathers, went forth into the wilds of Kentucky, and 
there, amid dangers innumerable, laid the foundation of 
the many handsome towns which now dot the surface of 
that fair state. Woman, too, timid, shrinking woman, 
was there, and in moments of the most appalling danger, 
the daring courage she displayed equaled that shown by 
her husband, father and brother. Often on the still mid- 
night air rang out the fearful war-cry, speaking of torture 


REMINISCENCES. 


275 


and death to the inmates of the rude dwelling, whose 
flames, rising high over the tree tops, warned some other 
lonely settler that the enemy was upon his track. 

But spite of all dangers and difiiculties, the tide of emi- 
gration poured steadily in upon Kentucky, until where 
once the Indian hunter and wild beast held undisputed 
sway, there may now be seen fertile gardens and cultiva- 
ted fields, handsome towns and flourishing cities. 


CHAPTER II. 

DEACON WILDER. 

Brightly looked forth the stars on one February night, 
while the pale moon, yet in its first quarter, hung in the 
western sky, illuminating as far as was possible the little 
settlement of P , Virginia. In a large square build- 

ing, the house of Deacon Wilder, there was a prayer 
meeting, consisting mostly of members from “ the first 
families in Virginia.” 

In this meeting Deacon Wilder took a prominent part, 
although there was an unusually mournful cadence in the 
tones of his voice ; and twice during the reading of the 
psalm was he obliged to stop for the purpose of wiping 
from his eyes two large tear-drops, which seemed sadly 
out of place on the broad, good-humored face of the dea- 
con. Other eyes there were, too, on whose long lashes 
the heavy moisture glistened, and whose faces told of 
some sad event, which either had happened or was about 
to happen. The cause of all this sorrow was this : Ere 
the night for the weekly prayer meeting again came, Dea- 


276 


GLEN’S CREEK. 


con Wilder and his family, who were universally liked, 
would be far on the road toward a home in the dense for- 
ests of Kentucky. In that old-fashioned kitchen were 
many who had come long, weary miles for the sake of 
again shaking the deacon’s hand, and again telling his 
gentle wife how surely their hearts would go with her to 
her home in the far west. 

The meeting proceeded decently and in order, as meet- 
ings should, until near its ^se, when Deacon Wilder, for 
the last time, lifted up his voice in prayer with the loved 
friends and neighbors he was leaving. At this point, the 
grief of the little company burst forth unrestrainedly. The 
white portion of the audience gave vent to their feelings 
in tears and half smothered sobs, while the blacks, of 
whom there was a goodly number present, manifested 
their sorrow by groans and loud lamentations. 

Among these was an old negro named Cato, who, to- 
gether with his wife Dillah, had formerly belonged to 
Deacon Wilder’s father, but on his death they had passed 
into the possession of the oldest son, Capt. Wilder, who 
lived within a stone’s throw of his brother. Old Cato 
was decidedly a Methodist in practice, and when in the 
course of his prayer Deacon Wilder mentioned that in all 
human probability he should^ never on earth meet them 
again, old Cato, who was looked upon as a pillar by his 
colored brethren, forgetting in the intensity of his feelings 
the exact form of words which he wanted, fervently ejacu- 
lated, “ Thank the Lord ! ” after which Dillah, his vdfe, 
uttered a hearty “ Amen ! ” 

This mistake in the choice of words was a slight set- 
back to the deacon, who was feeling, perhaps, a trifle 
gratified at seeing himself so generally regretted. But 
Cato and Dillah were a well-meaning couple, and their 
mistake passed unnoticed, save by the young people, who 


DEACON WILDEE. 


277 


smiled a little mischievously. The meeting continued un- 
til a late hour, and the hands of the long Dutch clock 
pointed the hour of midnight, ere the windows of Deacon 
"Wilder’s dwelling were darkened, and its inmates were 
dreaming, may he, of a home where good-bys and partings 
were unknown. 

Next morning, long before the sun had dallied with the 
east until over its gray cheek the blushes of daylight were 
stealing, the deacon’s family were astir. Fires were lighted 
in the fire-place, candles were lighted in the candlesticks, 
and breakfast was swallowed in a space of time altogether 
too short for the credulity of modem dyspeptics. Then 
commenced the exciting process of “ pullmg down ” and 
“packing up.” Bedsteads were knocked endwise, bed- 
clothes were thrown all ways, crockery was smashed, and 
things generally were put Avhere there was no possible 
danger of their being found again for one twelve-month. 
Deacon Wilder scolded, his wife Sally scolded, old Cato 
and Dillah, who had come over to superintend matters, 
scolded, the other negroes ran against each other and 
every way, literally doing nothing except “ ’clarm’ they’s 
fit to drap, they’s so tired,” while George, the deacon’s 
oldest son, looked on, quietly whistling “ Yankee Doodle.” 

In the midst of all this hubbub, little Charlie, a bright, 
beautiful, but delicate boy of nine summers, crept away 
to the foot of the garden, and there, on a large stone un- 
der a tall sugar maple, his face buried in his hands, he 
wept bitterly. Poor Charlie ! he was taking his first les- 
son in home-sickness, even before his childhood’s home 
had disappeared from view. He had always been opposed 
to emigrating to Kentucky, which, in his mind, was all 
“ dark, dark woods,” where each member of the family 
would be tomahawked by the Indians every day, at least, 
Knot oftener. 


278 


glen’s creek. 


But Charlie’s tears were unavailing, — the old home- 
stead was sold, the preparations were nearly completed, 
and in a few hours he would bid good-by to the places he 
loved so well. “ I shall never sit under this tree again,” 
said the weeping boy, “ never again play in the dear old 
brook ; and when I die there, I shall be afraid to lie alone 
in the dark woods, and there wiU be none but our folks 
to cry for me, either.” 

A soft footstep sounded near, two little arms were 
wound round Charlie’s neck, and a childish voice whis- 
pered, “ Oh, Charlie, Charlie, I will cry when I hear you 
are dead, and if you will send for me before you die, I 
will surely come.” 

It was Ella, his cousin. She was a year his junior, and 
since his earliest remembrance she had been the object of 
his deepest affection. Together they had played in the 
forest shade, together in the garden had they made their 
flower beds, and together had they mourned over torn 
dresses, lost mittens, bumped heads, nettle stings, and so 
forth. It is not altogether improbable that Charlie’s grief 
arose partly from the fact that Ella must be left behind. 
He had always been delicate, and had frequently talked 
to Ella of dying, so that she readily believed him when he ’ 
told her he should die in Kentucky ; she believed, too, 
that she should see him again ere he died. Did she be- 
lieve aright ? The story will tell you, but I shall not. 


CATO AND DILLAH. 


279 


CHAPTER III. 

CATO AND DILLAH. 

Everything was in readiness except the little wagon 
which was to convey the best looking-glass, the stuffed 
rocking chair, Mrs. Wilder, and Charlie. On an old 
stump near the gate sat Aunt Dillah, mdustriously wiping 
the tears from her dusky cheeks, and ever and anon ex- 
claiming, “ ’Pears like I could bar it better, if I was gwine 
with them.” 

This remark v^as overheard by her master, Capt. Wil- 
der. He had frequently heard Cato express the same 
wish, and thought it quite natural, too, inasmuch as Jake, 
their only child, was to accompany the deacon. For a 
moment the captain stood irresolute. We will not say 
what thoughts passed through his mind, but after a time 
he turned away and went in quest of his brother. There 
was a short consultation, and then Capt. Wilder, return- 
ing to Dillah, laid his hand on her shoulder, and said, 
“ Aunt Dillah, would it please you and Cato to go to Ken- 
tucky, and be killed by the Indians along with Jake ? ” 

“ Lord bless you, marster, that it would,” said Dillah, 
rolling up her eyes till only the whites were visible. 

“ Very well, you can go,” was Capt. Wilder’s reply. 

By this time old Cato and Jake had gathered near, and 
the “ Lord bless you’s” which they poured in upon the 
captain sent him into the house, out of sight and hearing. 
But Dillah had no time to lose. Her goods and chattels 
must be picked up, and old Cato’s Simday shirt must be 
wrung out of the rinsing water, Dillah declaring, “ she 
could kind o’shake it out and dry it on the road ! ” While 
putting up her things, 4he old creature frequently lament- 


280 


GLEN’S CEEEK. 


cd the unfortunate fact, that the new gown given her last 
Christmas by “ old Miss,” was not made, “ for,” said she, 
“ I shall want to look toppin’ and smart-like amongst the 
folks in Kentuck.” 

“ Ain’t no folks thar,” said J ake ; but as often as he 
repeated this assertion, AuntDillah answered, “Nowand 
then one, I reckon, ’less why should marster tote the 
whole on us out thar.” 

“For the Injuns to eat, I s’pose,” answered Jake, and 
then he went through with a short rehearsal of what his 
mother would say, and how she would yell, when one of 
the natives got her in his grip. Little Ella v,rept passion- 
ately when she learned that Dillah, too, was going, but 
when Charlie, stealing up to her, said, “ she will take care 
of me,” her tears were dried, and her last words to Dillah 
were, “ Be kind to Charlie till he dies.” 

Sweet Ella, it would seem that a foreshadowing of the 
future had fallen around her, for when at last Charlie’s 
farewell kiss was warm upon her cheek, her voice was 
cheerful, as she said, “ You will send for me and I shall 
surely come.” Could she have known how long and weari- 
some were the miles, how dark and lonely was the wood, 
and how full of danger was the road which lay between 
herself and Charlie’s future home, she might not have been 
so sure that they would meet again. 

One after another the wagons belonging to Deacon 
Wilder passed down the narrow road, and were lost to 
view in the deep forest which stretched away to the west 
as far as the eye could reach. Here for a short time we 
will leave them, while we introduce to our readers another 
family, whose fortunes are closely interwoven with our 
first party. 


THE GOBTONS. 


281 


CHAPTER IV. 

THE GOBTONS. 

Fiye years prior to the emigration of Deacon Wilder, 
Mr. Gorton, a former neighbor, had, with his family, re- 
moved to Kentucky, and found a home near Lexington. 
Around his fireside in Virginia once had gathered three 
young children, Robert, Madeline and Marian. Robert, 
the eldest, was not Mr. Gorton’s son, but the child of a 
sister, Mrs. Hunting, who on her death-bed had bequeathed 
her only boy to the care of her brother. Madeline, when 
three years of age, was one day missed from her father’s 
house. Long and protracted search was made, which re- 
sulted, at length, in the discovery of a part of the child’s 
dress near a spot where lay a pool of blood, and the mu- 
tilated remains of what was probably once the merry, 
laughing Madeline. As only a few of the bones and a 
small part of the flesh was left, it was readily supposed 
that the wolves, of which there were many at that time 
in the woods, had done the bloody deed. Amid many 
tears the remains were gathered up, placed in a little cof- 
fin, and buried beneath the aged oak, under which they 
were found. Years passed on, and the lost Madehne 
ceased to be spoken of save by her parents, w'ho could 
never forget. 

Marian, the youngest and now the only remaining 
daughter of Mr. Gorton, was, at the time of her father’s 
emigration, fourteen years of age. She was a fair, hand- 
some girl, and already toward her George Wilder, who 
was four years her senior, had turned his eyes, as toward 
the star which was to illuminate his future horizon. But 
she went from him, and thenceforth his heart yearned for 


282 


GLEN’S CREEK. 


the woods and hills of Kentucky, and it was partly through 
his influence that his father had Anally determined to re- 
move thither. Thus, while Charlie, creeping to the far 
end of the wagon, wept as he thought of home and Ella, 
George was anticipating a joyous meeting with the beau- 
tiful Marian, and formmg plans for the future, just as thou- 
sands have done since and will do again. 


CHAPTER V. 

THE NEW HOME. 

It is not our intention to follow our travelers through 
the various stages of their long, tiresome journey, but we 
will with them hasten on to the close of a nuld spring af- 
ternoon, when the whole company, wearied and spiritless, 
drew up in front of a large, newly built log house, in the 
rear of which were three smaller ones. These last were 
for the accommodation of the negroes, who were soon 
scattering in every direction, in order to ascertain, as soon 
as possible, all the conveniences and inconveniences of 
their new home. It took Aunt Dillah but a short time to 
make up her mind that “ Kentuck was an ugly-looking, 
out-of-the-way place, the whole on’t ; that she wished to 
gracious she’s back in old Virginny ; ” and lastly, that 
“ she never should have come, no how, if marster hadn’t 
of ’sisted and ’sisted, tiU ’twasn’t in natur to ’fuse.” 

This assertion Aunt Dillah repeated so frequently, that 
she at length came to believe it herself. The old creature 
had no idea that she was not the main prop of her mas- 
ter’s household, and we ourselves are inclined to think 


THE NEW HOME. 


283 


that Mrs. Wilder, unaided by Dillah’s strong arm, ready 
tact, and encouraging words, could not well have home 
the hardships and privations attending that home in the 
wilderness. Weary and heart-sick, she stepped from the 
little wagon, while an expression of sadness passed over 
her face |is her eye wandered over the surrounding coun- 
try, where tract after tract of thick woodland stretched 
on and still onward, to the verge of the most distant 
horizon. 

Dillah, better than any one else, understood how to 
cheer her mistress, and within an hour after their arrival, 
a crackling fire was blazing in the fire-place, while the old 
round iron tea-kettle, or rather its contents, were hissing 
and moaning, and telling, as plainly as tea-kettle could tell, 
of coming good cheer. At length the venison steaks and 
Dillah’s short-cake, smoking hot, were placed upon the 
old square table, and the group which shared that first 
supper at Glen’s Creek, were, with the exception of Charlie, 
comparatively contented. He, poor child, missed the 
scenes of his early home, and more than all, he missed his 
playmate, Ella. 

Long after the hour of midnight went by, he stood by 
his little low window near the head of his bed, gazing up 
at the hosts of shining stars, and wondering if they were 
looking upon his dear old home, even as they looked down 
upon him, homesick and lonely, afar in the wilderness of 
Kentucky. 


284 


GLEN’S CKEEK. 


CHAPTER YI. 

O HI ANN A. 

Weeks passed on, and within and withouj Deacon 
Wilder’s door were signs of life and civilization. Trees 
were cut down, gardens were made, corn and vegetables 
were planted, and stiU no trace of an Indian had been 
seen, although Jake had frequently expressed a wish to 
get a shot at the “ varmin,” as he called them. Still, he 
felt that it would be unwise to be caught out alone at any 
very great distance from his master’s dwelling. 

This feeling was shared by all of Deacon Wilder’s house- 
hold, except Charlie, who frequently went forth alone into 
the forest shade, and rambled over the hills where grew 
the rich wild strawberry and the fair summer flowers, and 
where, too, roamed the red man ; for the Indian was there, 
jealously watching each movement of his white brother, 
and waitmg for some provocation to strike a deadly blow. 
But Charlie knew it not, and fearlessly each day he plunged 
deeper and deeper into the depths of the woods, taking 
some stately tree or blighted stump as a way-mark by 
which to trace his homeward road, when the shadows be- 
gan to grow long and dark. 

Although he knew it not, Charlie had a protector, who 
each day, in the shady woods and wild gullies of Glen’s 
Creek, awaited his coming. Stealthily would she follow 
his footsteps, and when on the velvety turf he laid him 
down to rest, she would watch near him, lest harm should 
befall the young sleeper. It was Orianna, the only and 
darling child of Owanno, the chieftain whose wigwam was 
three miles west of Glen’s Creek, near a spot called Grassy 
Spring. 


ORIANNA. 


285 


Orianna had first been attracted toward Charlie by see- 
ing him weep, one day, and from a few words which he 
involuntarily let fall, she learned that his heart was not 
with the scenes wherein he dwelt, but was far away to- 
ward the “ rising sun.” Orianna’s heart was full of kindly 
sympathy^ and from the time whei\ she first saw Charlie 
weeping m the forest, she made a vow to the Great Spirit 
that she would love and protect the child of the “ pale- 
face.” The vow thus made by the simple Indian maiden 
w^as never broken, but through weal and woe it was faith- 
fully kept. 

It Avas a long time ere Orianna ventured to introduce 
herself to her new friend ; but when she did so, she was 
delighted to find that he neither expressed fear of her, 
nor surprise at her personal appearance. From that time 
they were inseparable, although Orianna exacted from 
Charlie a promise not to mention her at home, and also 
resisted his entreaties that she would accompany him 
thither. In reply to all his arguments, she would say, 
mournfully, “ No, Charlie, no, the pale-face is the enemy 
of my people, although Orianna never can think they are 
enemies to her ; and sometimes I have wushed, — it was 
wicked I know, and the Great Spirit was angry, — but I 
have wished that I, too, was of the fair-haired and white- 
browed ones.” 

In Charlie’s home there was much wonder as to what 
took him so regularly to the woods, but he withstood their 
questioning and kept his secret safely. In the wdgwam, 
too, where Orianna dwelt, there was some grumbling at 
her frequent absences, but the old chieftain Owanno and 
his wife Narretta loved their child too well to prohibit 
her rambling when and where she pleased. This old 
couple were far on the journey of life, when Orianna came 
as a sunbeam of gladness to their lone cabin, and thence- 


286 


GLEN’S CREEK. 


forth they doted upon her as the miser doats upon his 
shining gold. 

She was a tall, graceful creature of nineteen or twenty 
summers, and her life would have been one of unbounded 
happiness, had it not been for one circumstance. Near 
her father’s wigwam lived the young chief Wahlaga, who, 
to a most ferocious nature, added a face horribly disfig- 
ured by the many fights in which he had been foremost. 
A part of his nose was gone, and one eye entirely so ; yet 
to this man had Owanno determined to wed his beautiful 
daughter, who looked upon Wahlaga with perfect disgust, 
and resolved, that sooner than marry him, she would per- 
ish in the deep waters of the Kentucky, which lay not 
many miles away. 


CHAPTER VII. 

MARIAN. 

The deacon and his family had now been residents at 
Glen’s Creek nearly three months. Already was the leafy 
month of June verging into sultry July, when George 
Wilder at length found time to carry out a plan long be- 
fore formed. It was to visit Marian, and if he found her 
all which as a child she had promised to be, he would win 
her for himself. 

Soon after the early sun had touched the hill tops as 
with a blaze of fire, George mounted his favorite steed, 
and taking J ake with him for a companion, turned into 
the woods and took the lonely road to Lexington. Leav-. 


MAKIAN. 


287 


ing them for a moment, we will press on and see Marian’s 
home. 

It was a large, double log building, over which the 
flowering honeysuckle and dark green hop- vine had been 
trained until they formed an effectual screen. The yard 
in front was large, and much taste had been displayed in 
the arrangement of the flowers and shrubs which were 
scattered through it. Several large forest trees had been 
left standing, and at one end of the yard, under a clump 
of honey-locusts, a limpid stream of water, now nearly dry, 
went dancing over the large flat limestones which lay at 
the bottom. In the rear of the house was the garden, 
which was very large, and contained several bordered 
walks, grassy plats, and handsome flower-beds, besides ve- 
getables of all descriptions. At the end of the garden, and 
under the shadows of the woods, was a little summer- 
house, over which a wild grape-vine had been taught to 
twine its tendrils. 

In this summer-house, on the morning of which we are 
speaking, was a beautiful young girl, Marian Gorton. We 
have not described her, neither do we intend to, for she 
was not as beautiful as heroines of stories usually are ; 
but, reader, we will venture that she was as handsome as 
any person you have ever seen, for people were handsomer 
in those days than they are now, — at least our grand-pa- 
rents tell us so. Neither have we told her age, although 
we are sure that we have somewhere said enough on that 
point to have you know, by a little calculation, that Marian 
was now eighteen. 

This morning, as she sits in the summer-house, her brow 
is resting on her hand, and a shadow is resting on her 
^row. Had Marian cause for sorrow? None, except 
that her cousin Robert, who had recently returned from 
England, had that morning offered her his hand and been 


288 


glen’s creek. 


partially refused. Yet why should Marian refuse him, 
whom many a proud lady in the courtly halls of England 
would not refuse ? Did she remember one who, years 
ago, in the green old woods of Virginia, awakened within 
her childish heart a feeling, which, though it might have 
slumbered since, w^as still there in all its freshness ? Yes, 
she did remember him, although she struggled hard to 
conquer each feeling that was interwoven with a thought 
of him. Nearly three months he had been within twenty 
miles of her, and yet no word or message had been re- 
ceived, and Marian’s heart swelled with resentment to- 
ward the young man, whose fleet steed even then could 
scarce keep pace wnth his master’s eager wishes to press 
onward. 

From her earliest childhood she had looked upon Rob- 
ert as a brother, and now that he was ofiered as a hus- 
band, her heart rebelled, although pride occasionally 
whispered, “ Do it, — marry him, — then see what George 
Wilder will say ; ” but Marian had too much good sense 
long to listen to the promptings of pride, and the shadow 
* on her face is occasioned by a fear that she had remem- 
bered so long and so faithfully only to And herself un- 
cared for and forgotten. 

Meantime, the sound of horses’ feet near her father’s 
house had brought to the fence half a dozen negroes and 
half as many dogs, all ready in their own way to welcome 
the new comers. After giving his horse in charge of the 
negroes, George proceeded to the house, where he 
was cordially received by Mrs. Gorton, who could scarce- 
ly recognize the school-boy George, in the tall, fine look- 
ing young man before her. Almost his first inquiry was 
for Marian. Mrs. Gorton did not know where she was, 
but old Sukey, who had known George in Virginia, now 
hobbled in, and after a few tears, and a great many 


MARIAN. 


289 


“ Lor’ bless you’s,” and inquiries about “ old Virginny,” 
she managed to tell him that Marian was in the garden, 
and that she would call her ; but George prevented her, 
saying he would go himself. 

Most of my readers have doubtless either witnessed or 
experienced meetings similar to that which took place be- 
tween George and Marian, so I shall not describe it, but 
shall leave it for the imagination, which wdll probably do 
it better justice than can my pen, which comes very near 
the point of being used up. We will only say, that when 
at twelve o’clock Mr. Gorton and Robert returned from 
a ride, George and Marian were still in the summer-house, 
unmindful of the sun which looked in upon them as if to 
tell them of his onward course. But then, the question 
that morning asked and answered, was of great impor- 
tance, so ’twas no wonder that they were alike deaf and 
blind to the little darkies, who on tip-toe crept behind 
the summer-house, eager to know “ what the strange gen- 
tleman could be saying to Miss Marian, which made her 
look so speckled and roasted like.” These same hope- 
fuls, when at dinner time they were sent for their young 
mistress, commenced a general hunt, which finally termi- 
nated in the popping of their woolly heads into the sum- 
mer-house door, exclaiming between breaths, “ Oh, Miss 
Marian, here you is. We ’ve looked for you every whar ! 
Come to your dinner.” On their way to the house they 
encountered old Sukey,who called out, “Ho, Mas’ George, 
— ’specs mebby you found Miss Marry-’em,” at the same 
time shaking her sides at her own wit. 

Mr. Gorton received his young friend with great cor- 
diality, but there was a cool haughtiness m the reception 
which Robert at first gave his old playmate. He suspected 
the nature of George’s visit, nor did Marian’s bright, joy- 
ous face tend in the least to allay his suspicions. But not 
19 


290 


GLEN’S CEEEK. 


long could he cherish feelings of resentment toward 
one whom he liked so weU as he had George Wilder. In 
the course of an hour his reserve wore off, and unless 
George should chance to see this story, — which is doubt- 
ful, — ^he will probably never know how bitter were the 
feelings which his presence for a few moments stirred in 
the heart of Robert Hunting. Before George returned 
home, he asked Marian of her father, and also won from 
her a promise that, ere the frosts of winter came, her 
home should be with him, and by his own fireside. 


CHAPTER VIII. 

EGBERT AND OEIANNA, 

There was much talk and excitement in Deacon Wil- 
der’s family, when it was known that in a little more than 
three months’ time a young maiden would come among 
them, who would be at once daughter, sister and mistress. 
From Jake, the negroes had received most of their infor- 
mation, and verily George himself would scarcely have 
recognized Marian in the description given of her by his 
servant. So many beauties and excellences were attrib- 
uted to her, that the negi'oes were all on the qui vive to 
see this paragon. 

Charlie, too, was delighted, and when next day he as 
usual met Orianna in the woods, he led her to a mossy 
bank, and then communicated to her the glad tidings. 
When he repeated to her the name of his future sister- 
in-law, he was greatly surprised at seeing Orianna start 
quickly to her feet, while a wild light flashed from her 


ROBERT AND ORIANNA. 


291 


large black eye. Soon reseating himself, she said, calmly, 
“ What is it, Charlie ? ” What is the name of the white 
lady ? ” 

“Marian, — Marian Gorton,” repeated Charlie. “Do 
you not think it a pretty name ? ” 

Orianna did not answer, but sat with her small, delicate 
hands pressed tightly over her forehead. For a moment 
Charlie looked at her in wonder ; then taking both her 
hands in his, he said, gently, “ Don’t feel so, Orianna. I 
shall love you just as well, even if I do have a sister 
Marian.” 

Orianna’s only answer was, “ Say her name again, 
Charlie.” 

He did so, and then Orianna repeated, “ Marian, — Ma- 
rian, — what is it ? Oh, what is it ? Marian ; — it sounds 
to Orianna like music heard years and years ago.” 

“ Perhaps it was a dream,” suggested Charlie. 

“ It must have been,” answered Orianna, “ but a pleas- 
ant dream, fair as the young moon or the summer flow- 
ers. But tell me more, Charlie.” 

“ I will do so,” said he, “ but I am afraid you will for- 
get your lesson.” 

He had been in the habit of taking to the woods some 
one of his reading books, and in this way he had uncon- 
sciously awakened in Orianna a desire for learning. For 
some time past a part of each day had been spent in 
teaching her the alphabet. It was an interesting sight, 
that dark, handsome girl, and the fair, pale boy, — he in 
the capacity of a patient teacher, and she the ambitious 
scholar. 

On the afternoon of the day of which we are speaking, 
they were, as usual, employed in their daily occupation. 
The excitement of the occasion heightened the rich glow 
on Orianna’s cheek, while the wreath of white wild flow- 


292 


glen’s creek. 


ers, which Charlie had woven and placed among her shi- 
ning black hair, gave her the appearance of some dark 
queen of the forest. The lesson was nearly completed, 
and Charlie was overjoyed to find that his pupil knew ev- 
ery letter, both great and small, when they were startled 
by the sound of a footstep, and in a moment Robert 
Hunting, who had accompanied George Wilder home 
from Lexington, stood before them. 

Swiftly as a deer Orianna bounded away, while Charlie, 
ill evident confusion, attempted to secrete his book, and 
Robert burst into a loud laugh, saying, “Well done, 
Charlie ! So you ’ve turned schoolmaster, and chosen a 
novel pupil, upon my word. But who is she ? If she 
be a native, she is handsomer far than half the while 
girls ! ” 

“She is Orianna,” said Charlie, “the daughter of a 
chieftain, and I love her, too. 

“Mobility, hey?” said Robert laughing. “Better 
yet. But what made her run so ? Did she think I was 
the evil one ? Can’t you call her back ? ” 

“ She won’t come,” answered Charlie, “ she don’t like 
you, and I can’t make her.” 

“ So you have been saying a word in my favor, have 
you?” said Robert, a little sarcastically. “Greatly 
obliged to you. Master Charlie. But I prefer doing my 
own pleading.” 

“ I didn’t mean 2/ow,” said Charlie, a little indignantly. 
“ She don’t know that there is such a thing as you. I 
meant all the white folks.” 

“ Oh, you did,” answered Robert, looking wistfully in 
the direction where Orianna had disappeared. 

At that moment there was the report of a rifle, and a 
ball passed between him and Charlie and lodged in a tree 
a few feet distant. 


ROBERT ANB ORIANNA. 


293 


“ Soho,” exclaimed Robert, “ was n’t content with 
sending an arrow at my heart, but must hurl a bullet at 
my head.” 

Charlie was confounded. He never for a moment 
doubted that Orianna had sent the ball, and a fearful dis- 
trust of her filled his heart. A week went by, and still 
he neglected to take his accustomed walk, although he 
noticed that Robert went daily in his stead. 

At length one morning Robert came to him and said, 
“ Orianna bade me tell you that each day, ’neath the . 
buckeye tree, she’s watched for you in vain.” 

Charlie’s eyes opened wide with astonishment, as he 
exclaimed, “ Orianna ? Where have you seen Orianna ? ” 

“ Where should I see her, pray, but in the woods ? ” 
answered Robert. “We have spent the last five days 
together, there, and I have taken your place as teacher.” 

Here we may as well explain what the reader is doubt- 
less anxious to know. The bullet which passed between 
Robert and Charlie was not sent by the hand of Orianna, 
but by the vicious Wahlaga, whose curiosity had been 
roused as to what led Orianna so frequently to the woods. 
On that day he had followed and discovered her, just at 
the moment when Robert appeared before her. The 
jealous savage, thinking that he looked upon his rival, 
made ready his gun, when Orianna, suddenly coming 
upon him, threw aside his arm, thus changing the course 
of the ball, while at the same time, she led the excited 
Indian away, and at length succeeded in convincing him 
that never before had she seen Robert, nor did she even 
know who he was. 

The next morning Orianna was overjoyed to learn that 
Wahlaga was about leaving home, to be absent an indefi- 
nite length of time. Her happiness, however, was soon 
clouded by some expressions which he let fall, and from 


294 


glen’s creek. 


4 


wMcli she gathered that her father had promised to give 
her in marriage as soon as he should return. “ It shall 
never he ; no, never,” said the determined girl, as, im- 
mediately after his departure, she took the narrow foot- 
path to the woods of Glen’s Creek. 

Throughout all the morning she waited in vain for Char- 
lie, although she several times saw Robert at a distance, 
and felt sure that he was looking for her. She knew that 
she had saved his life, and this created in her a desire to 
see him again. Accordingly, when that afternoon they 
once more came suddenly face to face, she did not run, 
but eagerly asked after her young companion. Robert 
knew well how to play his part, and in a few moments 
Orianna’s shyness had vanished, and she was answering, 
with ready obedience, all the questions asked her by the 
handsome stranger. Ere they parted, Robert had learned 
that to her he owed his life, and as a token of his grati- 
tude he placed upon her slender finger a plain gold ring. 
He did not ask her to meet him again, next day, but he 
well knew she would, for she, who knew no evil, thought 
no evil. 

As Robert had said, he took Charlie’s place as teacher ; 
but, ah me ! the lessons thus taught and received 'were 
of a far different nature from the alphabet in Charlie’s 
picture-book. Many a time, ere that week went by, the 
simple Indian girl, in the solitude of night, knelt by the 
streamlet which ran by her father’s door, and prayed the 
Great Spirit to forgive her for the love which she bore 
the white man, the enemy of her people ; — and he ? — why, 
he scarce knew himself what his thoughts and intentions 
were. He looked upon Orianna as a simple-minded, in- 
nocent child ; and while he took peculiar delight in study- 
ing her character, he resolved that neither m word nor 


ROBERT AND ORIANNA. 


595 


deed would he harm the gentle girl who each day came 
so timidly to his side. 

Day after day was his stay at Glen’s Creek protracted, 
and yet he would not acknowledge that he was even 
interested in her within whose heart a passion had 
been awakened, never more to slumber. The day on 
which he spoke to Charlie of Orianna, was the last which 
he would spend at Glen’s Creek, and as he did not wish 
to be alone when he bade her adieu, he asked Charlie to 
accompany him. Oh, how bright was the smile with 
which the maiden greeted them at first, and how full of 
despair was the expression of her face when told by Rob- 
ert that he must leave her. Not a word did she speak, 
but closely to her heart she pressed the little Charlie, as 
if fearful lest he, too, should go. 

“ Farewell, Orianna,” said Robert. “ When the nuts 
are brown upon the trees, look for me, for I shall come 
again.” 

A moment more, and he was gone, — gone with poor 
Orianna’s heart, and left her nothing in return. Covering 
her face with her hands, she wept so long and bitterly, 
that Charlie at last wound his arms around her neck, and 
wept, too, although he knew not for what. This token 
of sympathy aroused her, and after a moment she said, 
“Leave me now, Charlie; Orianna would be alone.” 
He arose to obey, when she added, “ Don’t tell them, — 
don’t tell him what you have seen.” 

He promised secrecy, and Orianna was left alone. The 
forest was dark with the shadows of coming night ere 
she arose, and then the heart which she bore back to the 
wigwam by Grassy Spring was sadder than any she had 
ever before carried across the threshold of her home. 
The next day Charlie noticed a certain listlessness about 
his pupil, which he had never observed beiore; and 


296 


glen’s creek. 


though her eye wandered over the printed page, her 
thoughts were evidently away. At last a happy thought 
struck him, and drawing closely to her, he whispered, “ I 
think Robert will be pleased if you learn to read.” 

He had touched the right chord, — ^no other incentive 
was needed, — and from that day her improvement was as 
rapid as the most ambitious teacher could wish. Fre- 
quently she would ask Charlie concerning Marian, re- 
questing liim to repeat her name ; then she would fall into 
a fit of musing, saying, “ When heard I that name ? and 
where was it ? — oh, where ? ” 

Yes, Orianna, Where icas it? 


CHAPTER IX. 

THE BRIDAL. 

SwTPTLY and on noiseless wing sped on old father Time, 
and they who thought the summer would never pass, 
were surprised when o’er the wooded hills the breath of 
autumn came, bearing the yellow leaf — the first white 
hair in nature’s sunny locks. The golden harvests were 
gathered in, and through the forest “ the sound of drop- 
ping nuts was heard,” showing that 

“ The melancholy days had come, 

The saddest of the year.” 

It was the last day of October, and over the fe,dincr 
earth the autumnal sun was shedding its rays as brightly 
as in the early summer. The long shadows, stretdbing 
far to the eastward, betokened the approach of night, and 


THE BRIDAL. 


297 


when at last the sun sank to its western home, the full 
moon poured a flood of soft, pale light over the scene, 
and looking in at a half opened window, shone upon a 
beautiful young girl, who, with the love-light in her dark 
blue eye, and woman’s holy trust in her heart, was listen- 
ing, or seeming to listen, while the words were said 
which made her the wife of George Wilder. 

Scarce was the ceremony completed, when the light 
from the window was obscured, a shadow fell darkly upon 
Robert, and a voice, clear and musical, uttered words 
which curdled the blood of the fair bride, and made more 
than one heart stand still with fear. They were, “TAe 
Indians^ the Indians ! — they are coming in less than an 
hour ! ” 

The next moment a tall and graceful figure appeared 
in the doorway, and laying its hand on Robert’s shoulder, 
exclaimed, “ It is yoitr life they seek, but Orianna will 
save you ! ” 

Then away glided the maiden, so noiselessly that but 
for the tidings she brought, the party would almost have 
doubted that she had been there. For a time the com- 
pany were mute with surprise, and involuntarily George 
clasped closely to his side his Marian, as if to shield her 
from the coming danger. At length, Mr. Gorton asked 
Robert for an explanation of what the stranger had said. 

Robert replied, “Two days since, I was hunting in the 
woods not far from the house, when a rustling noise be- 
hind some bushes attracted my attention. Without stop- 
ping to think, I leveled my gun and fired, when behold ! 
up sprang an Indian girl, and bounded away so swiftly 
that to overtake her and apologize v/as impossible. Tliis 
I suppose to be the reason why my life is sought,” 

His supposition was correct, and for the benefit of the 
reader we will explain how Orianna became ppssessed of 


298 


GLEN’S CREEK. 


the secret. The night before, when returning to her fa- 
ther’s wigwam, she was stailled by the sound of many 
voices within. Curiosity prompted her to listen, and she 
thus learned that the Indians who lived east of Lexington 
had been insulted by a white man, who had fired at one 
of their squaws. From the description of the aggressor, 
she knew it to be Robert, and mth fast beating heart she 
listened to the plan of attacking Mr. Gorton’s dwelling 
on the night of the wedding. 

Owanno heard them to the end, and then, to Orianna’s 
great delight, he refused to join them, saying he was now 
too old to contend with the pale-face, unless himself or 
family were molested. The old chief would not acknowl- 
edge how much this decision was owing to the influence 
of his gentle daughter. He knew she liked the whites, 
and he knew, too, another thing, — ^but ’tis not time for 
that yet. 

Orianna had now something to do. A life dearer far 
than her own was to be saved, and Marian, too, — whose 
very name had a power to thrill each nerve of that noble 
Indian girl, — she was in danger. 

The next day Charlie waited in vain for his pupil, for 
she was away on her mission of love, and the stern 
features of many an Indian relaxed as he welcomed to 
his cabin the chieftain’s daughter. Ere the sun set she 
fully understood their plan of attack, and then, unmind- 
ful of the twenty-five miles traversed since the dawn of 
day, she hied her back to Lexington, to raise its inhab- 
itants, and as we have seen, to apprise the bridal party 
of their danger. 

Not a moment was to be lost, and while they were con- 
sulting as to their best means of safety, the Indian girl 
again stood among them, saying, “ Let me advise you. 
It is not the town they wish to attack, — they will hardly 


THE BRIDAL. 


299 


do that, — ^it IS this house, — ^it is yow,” laying her hand 
convulsively on Robert’s arm. “ But there is yet time to 
escape; flee to the town, and leave me here — ” 

“ To be killed ! ” said Robert. 

“ To be killed ! ” she repeated, scornfully. “ In all 
Kentucky there lives not the red man who dares touch a 
hair of Orianna’s head.” 

Her proposition seemed feasible enough, and after a lit- 
tle hesitation it Tvas resolved to adopt it. The negroes 
had already done so, for at the first alarm they had taken 
to their heels, and were by this time half way to Lexing- 
ton. Thither the whites, with the exception of Robert, 
soon followed. He resolutely refused to go, saying, in 
answer to his friends’ entreaties, “Ko, never will I de- 
sert a helpless female. You remove the ladies to a place 
of safety, and then with others return to my aid.” 

So they were left alone, the white man and the Indian. 
Together, side by si^e, they watched the coming of the 
foe. At Orianna’s direction the doors had been barri- 
caded, while the lights were left burning in order to 
deceive the Indians into a belief that the inmates still 
were there. A half hour went by, and then, in tones 
which sent the blood in icy streams through Robert’s 
veins, Orianna whispered, “ They come ! Do you see 
them ? Look ! ” 

He did look, and by the light of the moon he dis- 
cerned the outlines of many dusky forms, moving stealth- 
ily through the woods in the direction of the house. The 
garden fence was passed, and then onward, slowly but 
surely, they came. So intent was Robert in watching 
their movements, that he noted not the band of armed 
men who, in an opposite direction, were advancing to the 
rescue ; neither did he observe in time to prevent it the 
lightning spiking with which Orianna bounded through 


300 


GLEN’S CREEK. 


the window, and went forth to meet the enemy, who, 
mistaking her for some one else, uttered a yell of savage 
exultation and pressed on more fiercely. Loud and deaf- 
ening was the war-cry which echoed through the woods, 
and louder still was the shout of defiance which rent the 
air, as the whites came suddenly face to face with the as- 
tonished Indians. 

It was Orianna’s intention, when she leaped from the 
window, to reach the leader of the savages, and by tell- 
ing him the truth of the matter as she had heard it from 
Robert, she hoped to dissuade him from his murderous 
design. But her interference was not needed, for the 
savages were surprised and intimidated by the unexpected 
resistance, and m the fear and confusion of the moment 
they greatly magnified the number of their assailants. 
Accordingly, after a few random shots, they precipitately 
fled, leaving Orianna alone with those whose lives she had 
saved. 

Almost caressingly Robert wound his arm about her 
slight form, as he said, “ Twice have you saved my life. 
Kow, name your reward, and if money — ” 

There was bitterness in the tone with which Ori- 
anna interrupted him, saying, “Money! Orianna never 
works for money. All she asks is that you let her go, 
for the path is long which she must tread ere the sun’s 
rising.” 

“ To-night ! You will not leave us to-night ! ” said 
Robert. 

“ Urge me not,” answered Orianna, “ for by the wig 
warn door at Grassy Spring Narretta waits, and wonders 
why I linger.” 

Remonstrance was useless, for even while Robert was 
speaking, she moved away, and the echo of lier footfall 
was scarcely heard, so rapid and cat-like was the tread 


THE BEIDAL. 


301 


with which she disappeared in the darkness of the woods. 
Robert looked thoughtfully after her for a time, and then, 
with something very like a half smothered sigh, he turned 
away. Could that sigh, faint as it was, have fallen on the 
ear of the lone Indian girl, she would have felt fully re- 
paid for her toil, but now a weight of sorrow lay upon 
her young heart, crushing each flower of gladness, even 
as she, with impatient tread, crushed beneath her feet 
the yellow leaves of autumn. 


CHAPTER X. 

ORIANNA’S FAITH. 

Long had the old square table, with its cloth of snowy 
whiteness and its load of eatables, waited the coming of 
the bridal party. Many times had Mrs. Wilder stood in 
the doorway, and strained her eyes to catch a sight of 
the expected company, and more than many times had 
old Dillah declared “ that the corn cake which riz so nice 
would be fell as flat as a pewer platter, if they didn’t come 
along.” 

At length, from the top of a large old maple, in whose 
boughs several young Africans were safely ensconced, 
there came the joyful cry of, “There, they’s cornin’. 
That’s the new miss with the tail of her dress floppin’ 
round the horses’ heels. Jimminy ! ain’t she a tall one ! ” 
and the youngsters dropped to the ground, and perched 
themselves, some on the fence and others on the gate, 
with eyes and mouth open to whatever might happen. 

In the doorway Mrs. Wilder received the bride, and 


302 


glen’s GREEK. 


the ready tears gushed forth as for the first time in her 
life she folded to her heart a daughter. From his stool 
in the corner, Charlie came, and throwing his arms around 
Marian’s neck, he said, “ I know I shall love you, for you 
look so much like Orianna ! ” 

Old Dillah, who was pressing forward to oflTer her con- 
gratulations, was so much surprised that she forgot the 
bow and fine speech which, for more than a Week, she had 
been practicing. Her command of language, however, 
did not wholly desert her, for she said, somewhat warmly, 
“ Clar for ’t. Master Charles, young miss won’t feel much 
sot up to be told she favors a black Injun.” 

George, too, was evidently piqued at having his bride 
likened to an Indian, but Robert came to Charlie’s relief, 
saying, “ that he had often noticed how wholly unlike an 
Indian were the features of Orianna, and that were her 
skin a few shades lighter, she would be far more beauti- 
ful than many pale-cheeked belles, wdth their golden curls 
and snowy brows.” 

The conversation now turned upon Orianna, and the 
strong afifection which existed between her and Charlie, 
whom Robert teased mimercifully about his “ dark-eyed 
ladye love.” 

Charlie bore it manfully, and ere the evening was spent, 
he had promised to take Marian with him when next he 
visited his Indian friend. This promise he fulfilled, and 
the meeting between the two girls was perfectly simple 
and natural. Both were prepared to like each other, and 
both looked curiously, one at the other, although Marian 
at last became uneasy at the deep, earnest gaze which 
those full, black eyes bent upon her, while their owner 
occasionally whispered, “ Marian, Marian.” 

Visions of sorcery and witchcraft passed before her 
mind, and still, turn which way she would, she felt that 


ORIAKNA’S FAITH, 


303 


the dark girl’s eyes were fixed upon her with a strangely 
fascinating look. But fear not, young Marian, for though 
she strokes your silken curls, and caressingly touches your 
soft cheek, the forest maiden will do you no harm. At 
length Marian’s timidity gave way, and when she arose 
to go, she did not refuse her hand to Orianna, who for a 
time kept it between her own, as if admiring its white- 
ness ; then suddenly throwing it from her, she said, “ Oh, 
why can’t Orianna be white and handsome, too ! ” 

“ You are handsome,” answered Marian. “ Only two 
evenings since I heard Robert Hunting say that you were 
far more beautiful than half the white girls.” 

“ Who takes my name in vain ? ” said a musical voice, 
as Robert himself appeared before them, and laid his 
hand gently upon Orianna’s glossy hair. 

If Marian had any doubts of her beauty before, they 
were now dispelled by the rich color which mounted to 
her olive cheek, and the joy which danced in her large 
eye. Yet ’t was not Robert’s presence alone which so de- 
lighted Orianna. A ray of hope had entered her heart. 
“He thought her beautiful, and perhaps — perhaps — ” 

Ah, Orianna, think not that Robert Hunting will ever 
wed an Indian, for Robert is no Rolfe, and you no Po- 
cahontas ! 

As if divining and giving words to her thoughts, Robert, 
wliile seating himself between the two girls, and placing 
an arm around each, said, playfully, “ Hang it all, Orianna, 
why were you not white ! ” 

“ Don’t, Bob,” whispered Marian, who with woman’s 
quick perception half suspected the nature of Orianna’s 
feelings for one whose life she twice had saved. 

“ Don’t what, my little Puritan ? ” asked Robert. 

“ Don’t raise hopes which you k7iow can never be real- 
ized,” answered Marian. 


304 


glen’s creek;. 


Robert was silent for a while, and then said, “ I reckon 
my orthodox cousin is right ; ” then turning to Orianna, 
he asked how her reading progressed. 

Charlie answered for her, saying that she could read in 
words of one syllable as well as any one, and that she 
knew a great deal besides ! Robert was about testing her 
powers of scholarship, when they were joined by George 
Wilder, before whom Orianna absolutely refused to open 
her mouth, and in a few moments she arose and left them, 
saying, “ I shall come again, to-morrow.” 

That night, by the wigwam fire ISTarretta was listening 
to her daughter’s account of the “ white dove,” as she 
called Marian. Suddenly a light seemed to dawn on Ori- 
anna’s mind, and clasping her hands together, she said, 
“ Mother, do you remember when I was sick, many, many 
moons ago ? ” 

“ Yes, child,” answered !N’arretta, and Orianna contin- 
ued ; “ I slept a long time, I know, but when I woke, I 
remember that you, or some one else, said, “She is get- 
ting white ; it will never do.” Then I looked at my 
hands, and they were almost as fair as Marian’s, but you 
washed me with something, and I was dark again. Tell 
me, mother, was I turning white ? ” 

Turning white ! No, child,” said Narretta; “now 
shut up and get to bed.” 

Orianna obeyed, but she could not sleep, and about 
midnight she stole out at the door, and going to the 
spring, for more than half an hour she bathed her face 
and hands, hoping to wash off the offensive color. But 
all her efforts were vam, and then on the withered leaves 
she knelt, and prayed to the white man’s God, — the God 
who, Charlie had said, could do everything. “Make Ori- 
anna white, make her white,” were the only words she 
uttered, but around her heart there gathered confidence 


ORIANNA’S FAITH. 


305 


that her prayer would be answered, and impatiently she 
waited for the morrow’s light. 

“ Mother, am I white ? ” aroused ^NTarretta from her 
slumbers, just as the first sunlight fell across the floor. 

“ White ! No ; blacker than ever,” was the gruff an- 
swer, and Orianna’s faith in “Charlie’s God” was shaken. 


CHAPTER XT 

f 

PREPARATIONS FOR A JOURNEY. 

O’er the forest dark and lonely, 

Death's broad wing is brooding now 
While each day the shadow deepens 
Over Charlie’s fevered brow. 

Charlie’s health, which had always been delicate, 
seemed much impaired by the Kentucky air, but with the 
return of winter, there came the hacking cough and dart- 
ing pain, and Orianna already foresaw the time when, 
with a flood of bitter tears, she would lay her darling in 
the grave. The meetings in the woods were given up, 
and if Orianna saw her pet at aU, it was in his home, 
where she at length became a regular •nsitor, and where 
Marian daily taught her as Charlie had before done. 
Many were the lessons learned in the sick-room where 
Charlie lay, fading day by day, and many were the talks 
which he had with his Indian friend concerning the God 
whose power she questioned. But from the time when 
she was able herself to read in Charlie’s bible, the light 
of truth slowly broke over her darkened mind. 

From the commencement of Charlie’s iUness, he looked 

20 


S06 


GLEN’S CREEK. 


upon death as sure, and his young heart went hack to his 
playmate, Ella, with earnest longings, which vented them- 
selves in pleadings that some one would go for her, — 
would bring her to him and let him look upon her once 
more ere he died. ’Twas in vain that his mother tried to 
convince him of the impossibility of such a thing. He 
would only answer, “ I shall not know her in heaven, un- 
less I see her again, for I have almost forgotten how she 
looked.” 


4 : 4 : 4 ^ 

Winter was gone, and Charlie, no longer able to sit up, 
lay each day in his bed, talking of heaven and Ella, whom 
he now scarcely hoped to see again. One afternoon Ori- 
anna lingered longer than usual, in low, earnest conversa- 
tion with the sufferer. Charlie listened eagerly to what 
she was saying, while his eye sparkled and his fading 
cheek glowed as with the infusion of new life. As she 
was about leaving she whisj)ered, softly, “l^ever fear; 
though the time be long, I will surely bring her.” 

Yes, Orianna had resolved to go alone through the wil- 
derness to Virginia, and bring to the dying boy the little 
Ella. Filled with this idea, she hastened home ; but list, 
— whose voice is it, that on the threshold of her father’s 
door makes her quake with fear ? Ah, Orianna kens full 
well that ’tis Wahlaga ! He has returned to claim his 
bride, and instantly visions of the pale, dying Charlie, the 
far off Ella, and of one, too, whose name she scarcely 
dared breathe, rose before her, as in mute agony she 
leaned against the door. 

But her thoughts soon resolved themselves into one 
fixed determination — “I will never marry him;” and 
then with a firm step she entered the cabin. Wahlaga 




PEEPABATIONS FOR A JOURNEY. 


S07 


must have guessed her feelings, for he greeted her mood- 
ily, and immediately left her with her parents. To her 
father, she instantly confided her plan of going for Ella, 
and as she had expected, he sternly forbade it, saying she 
should stay and marry Wahlaga. 

Owanno was surprised at the decided manner with 
which Orianna replied, “Never, father, never. I will 
die in the deep river first.” 

At this juncture Wahlaga entered, and the discussion 
grew warmer and more earnest. Words more angry the 
chieftain spoke to his daughter than ever before he had 
done. Suddenly his manner softened, and concerning her 
going for Ella, he said, “If you marry Wahlaga, you can 
go ; othervfise you cannot, unless you run away.” 

“And if she does that,” fiercely continued Wahlaga, 
“ I swear by the Great Spirit, I’ll never rest until I’vf. 
shed the blood of every pale-face in that nest—sick whi- 
ning bov and all.” 

Like one benumbed by some great and sudden calam- 
ity, Orianna stood speechless, until her father asked, 
“ Will you go ? ” 

Then, rousing herself, she said, “ I cannot answer now ; 
wait till to-morrow.” Then forth from the cabin she went, 
and onward through the fast deepening twilight she fled, 
until through an opening in the trees she espied the light 
which gleamed from Charlie’s sick-room. Softly ap- 
proaching the window, she looked in and saw a sight 
which stopped for a moment the tumultuous beatings of 
her heart, and wjmng from her a shriek of anguish. Sup- 
ported by pillows lay Charlie, panting for breath, while 
slowly from his white lips issued drops of blood, which 
Marian gently wiped aw’ay, while the rest of the family were 
doing what they could to restore him. When Orianna’s 
loud cry of agony echoed through the room, Charlie 


308 


glen’s ceeek. 


slowly unclosed his eyes, and in an instant the Indian 
girl was beside him, exclaiming, wildly, “ Charlie, Charlie, 
do not die. I’ll marry him, I’ll go for her. I’ll do any- 
thing.” 

The astonished family at length succeeded in pacifying 
her, by telling her that Charlie had, in a fit of coughmg, 
ruptured a blood vessel, but that there was no immediate 
danger if she would keep quiet. Quickly the great ag- 
ony of her heart was hushed, and silently she stood by 
the bedside ; nor did they who looked on her calm face 
once dream of the tornado within, or how like daggers 
were the words of Charlie, who, in his disturbed sleep, 
occasionally murmured, “Ella, — oh, Ella, — has Orianna 
gone ? — she said she would.” 

Suddenly turning to Marian, Orianna, with a pressure 
of the hand almost crushing, said, “ TeU me what to do ? ” 
and from the little cot, Charlie, all unconsciously answered, 
“ Go for Ella.” 

“ I will,” said Orianna, and ere Marian had recovered 
from her astonishment, she was gone. When alone in the 
forest, she at first resolved to start directly for Virginia, 
but the remembrance of Wahlaga’s threat prevented her, 
and then again in the stilly night the heroic girl knelt and 
asked of Charlie’s God what she should do. 

Owanno was surprised when, at a late hour that night, 
Orianna returned, and expressed her willingness to marry 
Wahlaga, on condition that she should first go for Ella, 
and that he should not follow her. 

“ What proof have we that you will return ? ” asked 
Wahlaga, who was present. 

Orianna’s lip curled haughtily, as she answered, “ Orian- 
na never yet broke her word.” 

“ The tomahawk and death to those you love, if you 


PREPARATIONS FOR A JOURNEY. 


309 


fail of coming,” continued the savage, and “ Be it so,” 
was the reply. 

Old Narretta with streaming eyes would fain have in- 
terposed a word for her beloved child, but aught from her 
would have been unavailing. So on the poor girl’s head, 
which drooped heavily upon her lap, she laid her hard, 
withered hands, and her tears fell soothingly on the 
troubled heart of one who stood in so much need of 
sympathy. 

With the coming of daylight Orianna departed. Nar- 
retta accompanied her a short distance, and learned from 
her how much more than her life she loved the white man, 
and that were it not for this, not half so terrible would be 
her marriage with Wahlaga. 

“ I would help you if 1 could,” said N” arretta, “ but I can- 
not, though each night I will ask the Great Spirit to take 
care of you.” 

So they parted, Narretta to return to her lone cabin, 
and Orianna to pursue her way, she scarce knew whither. 
For many days they missed her in the sick-room, where 
all but Charlie wondered why she tarried, and he finally 
succeeded in convincing them that she had really gone for 
Ella, though at what a fearful sacrifice he knew not. 


CHAPTER Xn. 


ELL A . 

The town of P is almost exactly east of Glen’s 

Creek, and by keeping constantly in that direction, Ori- 
anna had but little difficulty in finding her way. In twelve 
days’ time she accomplishedher journey, stopping for food 


810 


GLEN’S CEEEK. 


and lodging at the numerous wigwams which lay on her 
road. 

It was near the middle of the afternoon wdien, at last, 
she entered the woods on the borders of which lay the 

settlement of P . Wearied with her day’s toil, she 

sought a resting-place beneath the same old oak where, 
seventeen years before, Mr. Gorton had laid his little 
Madeline ; and the same large, rough stone which he had 
placed there to mark the spot, and which had since fallen 
doAvn, now served her for a seat. But Orianna knew it 
not, nor ever dreamed that often had Robert and Marian 
stood there, the one listening tearfully, while the other 
told her all he could remember of the sister who, in child- 
ish playfulness, he had often called his little wife. 

It was now near the first of April, and already had the 
forest trees put forth many a dark green leaflet, w^hile the 
song birds gaily caroled of the coming summer ; but Ori- 
anna did not hear them. Sadly her heart went back to 
her home, ana what there awaited her. W eary and worn, 
it is not strange that for a time she yielded to the despair 
which had gathered about her heart. Covering her face 
with her hands, she wept bitterly, nor until twice repeated 
did she hear the words, “ What makes you cry so ? ” ut- 
tered m the soft tones of childhood. 

Looking up, she saw before her a little girl, her deep 
blue eyes filled with wonder and her tiny hands tilled with 
the wild flowers of spring. 

Something whispered to Orianna that it was Ella, and 
brushing away her tears, she answered, “ Orianna is tired, 
for she has come a long way.” 

“ What have you come for ? ” asked the child. 

“ Charlie sent me. Do you know Charlie ? ” and Ori- 
anna looked earnestly at the little girl, whose blue eyes 
opened wider, and whose tiny hands dropped the flower- 


ELLA, 


811 


etSj as she answered, “ Charlie, my cousin Charlie ? Have 
you come from him ? What word did he send me ? ” 

“ W alk with me and I will tell you,” said Orianna, ris- 
ing and taking by the hand the unresisting child, who, 
with the ready instinct of childhood, could discriminate 
between a friend and foe. 

For more than an hour they walked rapidly on, Ella, in 
her eagerness to hear from Charlie, never once thinking 
how fast the distance between herself and her home was 
increasing ; nor had she a thought of her companion’s in- 
tention, until Orianna, suddenly lifting her in her arms, 
said, “ I promised Charlie I would bring you, and for that 
have I come.” 

Then a cry of fear burst from Ella, who stmggled vainly 
to escape from the arms which gently, but tightly, held 
her. “ Let me go, oh, please let me go,” she cried, as 
Orianna’s walk quickened into a run ; but Orianna only 
replied, “I told Charlie I would bring you, and I promise 
you shall not be hurt.” 

“ Mother, oh, mother, who will tell my mother ? ” asked 
Ella. 

“ I will send some one to her in the morning,” answered 
Orianna ; and then in order to soothe the excited child, 
she commenced narrating anecdotes of Charlie and the 
place to which they were going. 

Fmding it impossible to escape, Ella by degrees grew 
calm, and as the night closed in, she fell asleep in the arms 
of Orianna, who, with almost superhuman efforts, sped on 
until a wigwam was reached. There for a short time she 
rested, and won from a young Indian a promise that he 
would next morning acquaint Capt. Wilder of the where- 
abouts of his child. Fearmg pursuit, she could not be pre- 
vailed upon to stay all night, but started forward, still 


312 


GLEN’S GREEK. 


keeping in her arms the little Ella, who at last slept as 
soundly as ever she had done in her soft bed at home. 

The night was far spent when Orianna finally stopped 
beneath the shelter of a large, overhanging rock. The 
movement aroused EUa, who instantly comprehending 
where she was, again plead earnestly that she might go 
home. Orianna soon convinced her that to return alone 
was impossible, and then painted the meeting between her- 
self and Charlie so glowingly, that though her eyes were 
full of tears, her voice was more cheerful, as she asked, 
“ And will you surely bring me back ? ” 

“As yonder stars fade in the rising sun, so surely shall 
you go home,” said Orianna. Then spreading in her lap 
the blanket which, with ready forethought, she had 
brought from home, she bade Ella lie down and sleep. 

“ And will you keep the bad Indians ofif ? ” asked Ella, 
looking shudderingly around at the dark Avoods. 

“No one will harm you while I am here,” was Orianna’s 
reply, and with the trusting faith of childhood Ella Avas 
soon fast asleep, while Orianna carefully watched her 
slumbers. 

Once during her night vigils she was startled by the 
distant cry of some wild beast, but it came not near, and 
the morning found them both unharmed. Dividing with 
her little charge the corn bread and cold venison Avhich 
had been procured at the wigwam, Orianna again set for- 
ward, leading Ella by the hand, and beguiling the hours 
in every possible way. The next night they passed in a 
wigAvam, where dusky faces bent curiously above the 
“ pale flower” as she slept, and where, next morning, in 
addition to the bountiful supply of corn-cake and venison, 
a bunch of spring Auolets Avas presented to Ella by an In- 
dian boy, who had gathered them expressly for the “ Avhite 
pappoose,” as he called her. 


ELLA. 


813 


Blest season of childhood, which gathers around it so 
many who are ready to smooth the rough places and 
pluck the sharp thorns which lie so thickly scattered on 
life’s pathway ! It was Ella’s talisman ; for more than one 
tall Indian, on learning her history from Orianna, cheer- 
fully lent a helping hand, and on his brawny shoulders car- 
ried her from the sun’s rising to its going down. 

With Elia for a companion, Orianna proceeded but 
slowly, and nearly three weeks were spent ere familiar 
way-marks told her that they were nearing Lexington. 
“ In less than two days we shall be there,” she said to 
Ella, as at the close of one day they drew near that town. 

Lighter grew Ella’s footsteps, and brighter was her eye, 
while darker and deeper grew the shadows around poor 
Orianna. She was right in her calculations, for on the af- 
ternoon of the second day they struck mto the narrow 
footpath which led to Deacon Wilder’s house, and which 
she and Charlie oft had trodden. 

Here for a time we will leave them, while in another 
chapter we will read what has taken place since we in the 
wilderness have been roaming. 


CHAPTER XIII. 

THE DEATH-BED. 

Anxiously as the sun was going down, did Mrs. Wil- 
der watch from her window for the return of her daugh- 
ter, and as the gray twilight deepened into night, and still 
she came not, the whole household was alarmed, and 
every house in the settlement was visited, to learn, if pos- 


8U 


GLEN’S CREEK. 


Bible, some' tidings of the wanderer. Some remembered 
having seen her enter the woods soon after dinner, but 
farther than that none could tell ; and the loud, shrill cry 
of “ Lost ! lost ! A child lost in the woods ! ” echoed on 
the evening air, and brought froima distance many who 
joined in the unsuccessful search, wdiich lasted all night. 
Morning came, and Mrs. Wilder, pale and distracted with 
grief, ran hither and thither, calling loudly for her lost 
darling. 

Three hours of the sun’s daily journey was accomplished, 
when a young Indian was seen to emerge from the woods, 
and rapidly approach the house of Capt. Wilder, where 
he communicated all he knew concerning Orianna, and 
ended his narrative by saying, “ It wiU be useless to follow 
her.” 

But Capt. Wilder did not think so, and instantly mount- 
ing his horse, he started in pursuit ; but the path he took 
was entirely 'diderent from the one chosen by Orianna, 
and at night-fall he returned home, weary and discouraged. 
For some time he had been contemplating a visit to his 
brother, and he now resolved to do so, hoping by this 
means to fall in with the fugitives. Mrs. Wilder warmly 
approved the plan, but made him promise that if no good 
news were heard of Ella, he would instantly return. 

Taking with him two negroes, he started on his jour- 
ney, but no trace of Orianna did he discover, and he 
reached Glen’s Creek before she had accomplished half 
the distance.. Assured by his brother’s family of Ella’s 
perfect safety with the Indian girl, he grew calm, although 
he impatiently waited their coming. 

Meantime, little Charlie had grown worse, until at last 
he ceased to speak of Ella, although he confidently ex- 
pected to see her, and requested that his bed might be 
moved to a position from which he could discern the path 


THE DEATH-BED. 


815 


which led up from the woods. There for mahy days he 
watched, and then turning sadly away, he said, “ Mother, 
now take me hack. Ella will come, but I shall be dead.” 

From that time he grew worse, and the afternoon on 
which we left Orianna and Ella in the woods was the last 
he ever saw on earth. Gathered around the dying boy 
were weeping friends, who knew that the mild spring sun 
which so gently kissed his cold, pale brow, would never 
rise again for him. Kind words he had spoken to all, and 

then- in a faint Tvhisper, he said, “ Tell Ella ; ” but 

the sentence was unfinished, for Ella stood before him, 
while the look of joy that lighted up his face told how 
dear to him was the little girl around whose neck his arms 
twined so lovingly. 

And now a darker face, but not less lo'vdng heart, ap- 
proached, and whispered softly, “ Charlie, do you know 
me?” 

“ Orianna,” was the answer, as on her lips a kiss was 
pressed. 

Then the arms unclasped from Ella’s neck, over the 
blue eyes the heavy eyelids closed, and Charlie had gone 
home. With a bitter wail of sorrow Orianna bent for a 
moment over the marble form, for which she had sacrificed 
so much, and then, from among those who fain would 
have detained her, she went, nor paused for a moment, 
untU the wigwam of her father was reached. 

In the doorway she found Karretta, whose first excla- 
mation was,. “ Have you heard ? Have they told you ? 
The Great Spirit has answered my prayer ! ” and then to 
her daughter she unfolded a tale which we, too, will nar- 
rate to our readers. 

It will be remembered that on the day when Orianna 
left home for Virginia, Karretta accompanied her a short 
distance, and learned from her the story of her love for 


316 


glen’s ceeek. 


Robert. To tnat story there was another, — an unob- 
served listener, — ^Wahlaga, who from that hour resolved 
to take the life of his pale rival, but his designs were foiled 
by a summons from the invisible world, which he could 
not disobey. 

A week after Orianna’s departure, he was taken ill of 
a disease contracted at the Indian camp, where he had 
spent the winter. All the skiU of the “ medicine man” 
could not save him, and on the fifth day he died, cursing, 
with his last breath, his hated rival. 

When it was known at Deacon Wilder’s that death had 
been at Grassy Spring, words of kindly sympathy were 
sent there for the sake of the noble Orianna ; and for her 
sake, perhaps, Owanno’s feelings softened toward the in- 
habitants of Glen’s Creek. It is impossible to describe 
Orianna’s feelings on learning that the dreadful Wahlaga 
was dead, really dead, and would trouble her no more. 
Her whole bemg seemed changed, and the slumber which 
that night stole o’er her was sweeter far and more refresh- 
ing, than for many weary days had visited her. 

At Glen’s Creek that same night Capt. Wilder, with 
his darling Ella pressed to his bosom, was listening, wliile 
between her tears for little Charlie, she told him of the 
many virtues of her Indian companion, urging him to 
send for her mother, that she, too, might know and love 
Orianna. But Ella’s strength was exhausted long before 
her theme, and when, as her voice ceased, her father 
looked down upon her, she was far in the depths of 
dreamland. 


THE DENOTJEMENT. 


S11 


CHAPTER XIY. 

THE DE ]SrOtJEMENT. 

As if to mock the anguish of those who were about to lay 
their last-born in the earth, the day of Charlie’s funeral 
was bright and beautiful, as the spring days often are 
’neath the warm Kentucky sun. Sweetly the wild flow- 
ers were blooming, and merrily sang the summer birds, 
as underneath a maple tree, a tree which stands there yet, 
they dug that little grave, — the first grave at Glen’s 
Creek. Mr. and Mrs. Gorton, Robert, and several others 
from Lexington had come to shed the sympathizing tear 
with the bereaved ones, but besides the nearest relatives, 
there was not so sincere a mourner as she who, apart from 
the rest, looked silently on, while into the earth they low- 
ered the cold, dead Charlie. 

Long after the mourners had returned to their deso- 
late home, she lingered, and on the little mound deplored 
in piteous tones her loss, saying, “ Oh, woe is me, now 
Charlie has crossed the great river, and left Orianna all 
alone. Who will love me now, as he did ? ” 

“ Many, many,” answered Robert Hunting, who pur- 
posely had returned, and been an eye and ear ^vitness of 
Orianna’s grief. “Yes, many will love you,” he conf- 
tinned, seating himself by her, and drawing her closely to 
him. Then in the bewildered girl’s ear he softly whis- 
pered, “I am not worthy of you, Orianna, but I love you, 
and I know, too, on what condition you went to Virginia, 
and that had Wahlaga lived, he had sworn to murder me 
and marry you.” 

For this information he was indebted to ISTarretta, who, 
three days before Wahlaga’s illness, overhearing him unfold 


S18 


GLEN’S CKEEK. 


his plan of revenge to Owanno, went to the door of Dea- 
con Wilder’s house, and asking for Robert, led him to the 
woods, and there communicated to him what he has just 
told Orianna. Robert did not ask Orianna to be his 
Tvufe ; and perhaps ’twas well that he did not, for the con- 
fession which he did make, added to the excitement of 
W ahlaga’g and Charlie’s death, was too much for a frame 
already weakened by the hardships attending that jour- 
ney to and from Yirginia. The next morning found her 
burning with fever and ra’V’ing with delirium. Owanno, 
too, was smitten by the same disease which had con- 
signed Wahlaga to an early grave. 

With anxious heart Narretta hurried from one suiferer 
to the other, and the first Indian that looked in at the 
door, was urged to go immediately to Deacon Wilder’s 
and ask some one to come to her. Robert and Marian 
instantly obeyed the summons, but human skill could 
not save Owanno. In three days after the commence- 
ment of his illness, it was said of him that he had 
gone to the fair hunting grounds, while the despairing 
howl of the assembled Indiana mingled with the mourn- 
ful wail of the v/idowed Narretta and the feeble moans 
of Orianna, wdio incessantly cried, “ Biiry me under the 
maple tree with Charlie, v»^here we sat when he told me, — 

where he told me, ” but what he told her she never 

said. 

At Marian’s request, Mrs. Gorton had remained for 
some time at Glen’s Creek, and one day, not long after 
Owanno’s burial, she accompanied her daughter to see 
Orianna, who, though very w^eak, was still much better. 
They found her asleep, but Narretta arose to receive 
them. As Mrs. Gorton’s eye fell upon her, an undefined 
remembrance of something past and gone rose before her^ 




THE DEKOUEMENT. 


819 


and at last, taking the old Indian woman’s hand, she' said, 

hTarretta, have I never met you before ? ” 

“ Plenty times,” was the laconic answer ; and after a 
moment’s pause, Mrs. Gorton, continued : “ I remember, 
now, eighteen or twenty years ago your wigwam was 
near my home in Virginia, and you one morning came to 
me, saying you were going away toward the setting sun.” 

“White woman remembers wonderful,” said old 
Karretta. 

“ I might not remember so well,” answered Mrs. Gor- 
ton, “ but you loved my little Madeline, and about the 
time you went away she died.” 

Something out of doors attracted N’arretta’s attention, 
and she abruptly turned away. For more than an hour 
she was gone, and when she returned she was muttering 
to herself, “ Yes, I’ll do it. I shall do it.” 

“Do what ? ” asked Marian, a little alarmed at ilarret- 
ta’s excited manner. 

But ISTarretta made her no answer, and going up to 
Mrs. Gorton, said rapidly, “Madeline did not die ! FTar- 
retta loved her, loved all children, but the Great Spirit 
gave her no pappooses of her own, and when she went 
away she stole her. She took her, and under the tree she 
left a part of her clothing and the smashed carcass of a 
young fawn, to make the white woman think the w'olves 
had eaten her up.” 

Here she stopped, and Mrs Gorton, grasping the wasted 
hand of Orianna, turned to Karretta and said, “Tell me, 
tell me truly, if this be Madeline, my long lost daughter ! ” 

“It is,” answered Narretta. “You know she was 
never as fair as the other one,” pointing to Marian, “ and 
with a wash of roots which I made, she grew still blacker.” 

She might have added, also, that constant exposure to 
the weather had rendered still darker Orianna’s complex- 


320 


glen’s ceeek. 


ion, which was naturally a rich brunette. But whatever 
else she might have said, was pre^^nted by Mrs. Gorton, 
who fell in a death-like swoon at her feet. The shock 
was too great, to know that in the gentle Orianna, whose 
noble conduct had won the love of so many hearts, she 
beheld her long wept-for daughter Madeline. 

Upon Marian and Orianna the knowledge that they 
were sisters operated differently, according to their dif- 
ferent temperaments. With a cry of joy Marian threw 
her arms around Orianna’s neck, who, when made to com- 
prehend the reality, burst into tears, saying, “ I thought I 
should be white, sometime, — I almost knew I should.” 

By this time Mrs. Gorton had recovered from her faint- 
ing fit, and clasping her newly found daughter to her bo- 
som, thanked the God who so unexpectedly had restored 
her. The next day the news reached Lexington, bringing 
thence Robert, who, in the intensity of his joy, seemed 
hardly sane. At a glance he foresaw the future. Orian- 
na, for so he would always call her, should go to school 
for five years, and at the end of that time, images of a 
noble, beautiful bride, rose before him, as he hurriedly 
traversed the road to Grassy Spring. Their interview we 
shall not describe, for no one witnessed it, though Marian 
impatiently remarked, “ that it took Bob much longer to 
tell what he had to say than it did George when he first 
came to Lexington.” But then Marian had forgotten, as 
who will not forget, or pretend to. 

Old Narretta was the only one who seemed not to share 
the general joy. She looked upon Orianna as lost to her 
forever, and heard the plan of sending her to school with 
unfeigned sorrow. Still, she made no objections to what- 
ever Mr. and Mrs. Gorton chose to do with their child ; 
and when Orianna was well enough, she gave her consent 
that she should be removed to her father’s house, where 


THE DEKOITEaiENT. 


321 


every possible indulgence was lavished upon her by her 
parents, in order to attjfch her to them and their mode of 
life. 

There was now no tie to bind Karretta to Grassy 
Spring, and yielding to Orianna’s entreaties, she accom- 
panied her to Lexmgton, occupying a cabin which Mr. 
Gorton built for her on the edge of the wood at the foot 
of the garden. Here, many times a day, she saw her child, 
who was now Robert’s daily pupil. But Robert found it 
more difficult to tame his Indian girl than he had at first 
anticipated. On one subject, that of dress, she for a time 
seemed incorrigible. Occasionally she would assume the 
style worn by Marian, but soon casting it off, she would 
don her old costume, in which she felt and looked most at 
home. But one day the Indian dress mysteriously disap- 
peared. More than a week Orianna sought for it in vain ; 
then, with a flood of tears, she yielded the point, and wore 
whatever her friends thought proper. Her complexion, 
too, with which great pains was taken, gradually grew 
fair, until all trace of the walnut stain disappeared. 

In October she ^vas placed in the best school of which 
Philadelphia could then boast. She was always shy and 
timid, but her gentle manners and sweet disposition, to say 
nothing of the romance connected with her history, made 
her a general favorite with her companions, while the 
eagerness with which she sought for knowledge, rendered 
her equally a favorite with her teachers. In speaking of 
this once, to her mother, who was visiting her, she said, 
“ When dear Charlie died, I thought there was no one 
left to love me, but now it seems that every body loves 
me.” 

Here we will say a word concerning little Ella, who, 
two days after Charlie’s ftmeral, and before Orianna’s pa- 
rentage was known, had gone home with her father to 
21 


322 


glen’s creek. 


Virginia. Almost constantly she talked of Orianna, and 
on learning that she was Marian’s sister, her delight was 
unbounded. When intelligence was received that she had 
been placed at school in Philadelphia, Capt. Wilder, yield- 
ing to Ella’s importunities, consented to send her there, 
also. Ella had not taken into consideration how greatly 
changed her Indian friend must necessarily be, and when, 
on reaching Philadelphia, a beautiful young lady entered 
the room, neatly and fashionably attired, she could scarcely 
believe that it was her companion of the forest. 

At Orianna’s request they became room-mates, and it 
was difficult to tell which was more child-like, the tall 
maiden of twenty-one, or the curly-haired girl of nine. 

Five years seems a long, long time, but to Orianna it 
soon glided away, and then she left school, a much better 
scholar than now is often graduated at our most fashionable 
seminaries. During her stay in Philadelphia, she had be- 
come greatly attached to the city, and Robert, whose 
wealth would admit of his living where he pleased, pur- 
chased a handsome dwelling, fitting it up according 
to his own taste, which was rather luxurious. 

Six years from the night of Marian’s bridal, there was 
another wedding at the house of Mr. Gorton, and Orian- 
na, now a beautiful woman of twenty-six, was the bride. 
George and Marian both were present, together with a 
lisping Charlie, and a dark-eyed baby “ Orianna,” who 
made most wondrous efforts to grasp the long diamond 
earrings which hung from its auntie’s ears, for, Indian-like, 
Orianna’s passion for jewelry was strong and well de- 
veloped. 

Old Narretta, too, was there, but the lovely young 
creature whose head so fondly lay upon her lap, asking her 
blessing, was unseen, for Narretta was now stone blind. 
Already in her superstitious imagination warnings had 


THE DENOUEMENT. 


323 


come from the spirit world, bidding her prepare to meet 
Owanno. Gladly would Orianna have taken her to her 
Philadelphia home, but she answered, “No, I will die and 
be buried in the woods ; ” and the first letter which went 
from Mrs. Gorton to her daughter, told that Narretta was 
at rest. 

On the first anniversary of Orianna’s wedding day, Rob- 
ert, still madly in love with his handsome wife, wished 
to give her a pleasant surprise. Accordingly, besides the 
numerous other costly presents which he brought her, he 
presented her mth a large square box, saying that its 
contents were for her. 

On opening it, Orianna saw disclosed to view the old 
Indian dress, whose loss she years before had wept. 
Bright as the sunlight of her happy home were the tears 
which glittered in her large black eyes, as, glancing at the 
rich heavy silk which now composed her dress, she said, 
“Oh, Bob, h6w could you?” and “Bob” answered, 
“ How could I what ? ” 


“Now, Mary,” said my Great-Aunt Sally, ds o’er the 
title of this tale her golden spectacles for a moment 
peered, “Now Mary, what could possess you to choose 
such a subject? Seems as though you had no knack in 
getting up a taking title. Why don’t you ever write 
about ‘ The Murdered Sisters,’ or ‘ Lover’s Revenge,’ or 
some such thrilling themes ? ” and Aunt SaUy settled 
herself for her afternoon nap, in the large, stuffed easy 
chair, before the grate of gloAving Lehigh, greatly la- 
menting the incapacity of her niece for “ gettmg up ta- 
king titles.” 

Dear Aunt SaUy, who, since my earliest remembrance, 
has worn the same sweet, placid smile, the same neatly 
fashioned caps, and carried the same large tortoise shell 
snuff-box ! Could I not, if I would, weave a story of her 
now so quietly passing into the winter of life ! 

And now her heavy breathings show that I and my 
story have ceased to trouble her, while Malta, the pet kit- 
ten, snugly nestled in its mistress’ lap, purrs out her con- 
tentment, occasionally lifting her velvet paw toward the 
nose which bows and nods so threateningly above her. 
Darkly across the floor fall the shadows of the locust 
tree|, whose long branches make mournful music as they 
sweep against the loosened shutter. On the almost de- 


JOSEPHINE. 


325 


serted sidewalk is heard the patter of the September rain, 
and in the delicious quiet of a still, smoky, rainy afternoon, 
commences the first chapter in the life of one, who, in the 
somber old church at Snowdon, was christened Josephine 
Clayton. 


CHAPTER I. 

J O SEP HINE. 

The house which Uncle Isaac Clayton, the shoemaker 
of Snowdon, called his, was an old brown, gable-roofed 
building, containing wide fire-places, huge ovens, ash-pits 
of corresponding magnitude, and low rooms, where the 
bare rafters looked menacingly down, strikingly suggest- 
ive of bumped heads, especially to those who, being above 
the medium height, carried their heads too high. Then 
there were the little narrow windows, so far from the 
floor, that every time a wagon was heard, the six red- 
backed, splint-bottomed chairs were brought into requisi- 
tion by Uncle Isaac’s six white-haired boys, all eager to 
know ‘‘ who’s goin’ by ! ” 

It was in the same room which contained these six red- 
backed chairs, that Josephine first opened her eyes on 
the light of a fair September morning, and, in the same 
room, too, the six white-haired boys, on tip-toe, stole up 
to the bed to see the novelty, for never before had a 
daughter graced Uncle Isaac’s domestic circle. 

“ She makes up just such faces and looks just as ugly 
as Jim did when he was a baby,” said Frank, the oldest 
of the boys ; and with a whistle which he meant should 


326 the gable-roofed house at SNOWDON*. 

be very indifferent, he walked away, followed by all his 
brothers save Jimmy, who lingered longer to look at the 
stranger, who so unceremoniously had usurped his rights 
and privileges as the youngest. Though cradled in the 
lap of poverty, a more restless and ambitious being has 
seldom sprung into existence than w’^as she, whose soft cheek 
and tiny fingers Jimmy so lovingly caressed. Yes, Jimmy, 
love her now, lavish upon her all the affection of your 
noble heart, for the time will come when she, a haughty, 
beautiful woman, will turn her back on you, ashamed to 
own that once beneath the old gable-roof she called you 
brother. 

Over Josephine’s early days we will not linger, or stop 
to tell how both early and late Uncle Isaac’s pegs and 
long waxed-ends flew, to meet the increased demands for 
money which the new comer made, nor how Jimmy, in 
order that his sister might have the bright pink dress, 
which so well became her rosy cheeks and silken curls, 
went, with generous self-denial, without the new Sunday 
coat, wearing the old patched one, until it Avas hard to 
tell which piece belonged to the original article. 

It Avas no ordinary loA’-e which Jimmy Clayton bore 
his only sister ; and as she greAV older and he saw her 
passion for dress, he carefully hoarded every penny 
which he earned, and then Avhen she least expected it, 
poured his treasure into her lap, thus, Avith mistaken 
kindness, gratifying a fondness for dress far above her 
means. Though possessing less of it than most small vil- 
lages, Snowdon had its ton^ its upper set^ aaJio, Avhile 
they commented upon the marvelous beauty of Jose- 
phine, still passed her by as one not of their number. 
This AA^as exceedingly mortifying to her pride, and Avhen 
at the school which she attended, Mabel Howland, the 
laAvyer’s child, spoke sneeringly of “ the poor shoemaker’s 


JOSEPHINE. 


327 


daughter,” her spirit was fully roused, and she resolved 
to leave no means untried until money was within her 
reach. Accordingly, when sixteen years of age, she was 
willingly apprenticed to a milliner in the city, with the 
understanding that at the end of six months she should 
return home for a short visit. Many articles which were 
absolutely necessary for the coming winter, did Mrs. 
Clayton deny herself, that a decent outfit might be pro- 
cured for the thankless girl, who, without a tear, left the 
humble home she so much despised. 

But, in spite of her faults, she left behind her loving 
hearts, which many long days missed her bright, hand- 
some face and bounding footstep. Darker than ever 
seemed the dark old kitchen at Snowdon, while the cricket 
’neath the large flat stones which served as a hearth, 
mournfully chirped, “ she’s gone,” as on the first evening 
after her departure Mr. and Mrs. Clayton and Jimmy 
gathered around the frugal board. The other five boys, 
now grown to manhood, were away, three of them being 
respectable farmers, and the other two mechanics. 

Jimmy had always been a home boy, and he remained 
with his mother, learning his father’s trade, and working 
in the little shop which had been built in the rear of the 
house. In his childhood he had thirsted for more knowl- 
edge than could be obtained by a yearly attendance of 
five months at the district school of Snowdon, but, taught 
by liis father to believe that education was only for the 
rich, he hushed the desire he had once had for something 
noble and high, and patiently, day by day, he toiled im- 
complainingly in the shop, thinking himself sufficiently 
rewarded by the smile of approbation with which his 
mother always greeted him, and the few words of kind- 
ness which his sister occasionally gave him. But in that 
close, smoky shop was the germ of a great mind. The 


828 


THE GABLE-BOOFED HOUSE AT SNOWDON. 


scholar and statesman was there, who one day Avould 
stand forth among the great men of the land. 

But not with Jimmy must we tarry. Our story leads 
to the noisy city, where already had Josephine’s uncom- 
mon beauty been the subject of remark, drawing to Mrs, 
Lamport’s shop many who were attracted thither by the 
hope of seeing the beautiful apprentice gii’l, who was fre- 
quently sent to wait upon them. “ What a pity that she 
should be a milliner,” had more than once been whispered 
in her hearing, and ere three months of her apprentice- 
ship had expired, she was devising schemes by which to 
rise to the level for which she believed nature intended 
. her ; and fortune, or rather ill fortune, seemed to favor 
her wishes. 

Among the millionaires of the city was a Mr. HubbeU, 
who, with a gouty foot, restless mind, and nervous, sickly 
daughter of eighteen, managed to kill time by playing 
chess, reading politics, giving dinner parties, humoring 
his daughter, visiting every fashionable watering place, 
cursing the waiters, and finding fault generally. Not al- 
ways, however, had Mr. Hubbell possessed so peculiar a 
disposition. Late in life his quiet bachelor habits had 
been broken by a young, joyous creature, on whom he 
doted with an almost idolatrous love ; but the same sun 
which first shone on him, a happy father, left him at its set- 
ting, a stricken, desolate mourner. Anna, his cherished 
girl-wife, had left him forever. He had not thought she 
could die, and when they told him she was dying, with 
the shriek of a madman he caught her in his arms, as if he 
would contend mth the king of terrors for the prize he 
was bearmg away. She died, and from the quiet, easy 
husband, Enos Hubbell became a fault-finding, fretful, dis-* 
consolate widower. 

His daughter Anna had, in l.or childhood, been sub\'ct 


JOSEPHINE, 


329 


to severe and protracted fits of sickness, and now, at 
eighteen, she was a pale, delicate, kind-hearted girl, 
though rather peculiar in her likes and dislikes, for upon 
whatever object her afiections chanced to fasten, she clung 
to it with a tenacity which nothing could weaken. For 
one thing in particular she was famous. She was always 
discovering people whom she thought “ far below their 
position in life.” These she generally took under her 
special notice, and as might be expected, usually suc- 
ceeded in making them both discontented and unhappy. 

Josephine had been in Mrs. Lamport’s employment 
nearly three months, when she was one morning sent to 
wait upon Miss Hubbell, who came on some trifling er- 
rand. Something in the face and appearance of the ap- 
prentice girl deeply interested Anna, who felt sure that 
for once she discriminated rightly, — that she had at 
last found one really worthy of being her protege, — in 
short, Josephine was discovered! Many were the visits 
made to Mrs. Lamport’s, until the intimacy between 
Anna and Josephine became a subject of gossip among 
the shop girls, each of whom, according to her own pre- 
tensions for beauty, was jealous of her handsome rival. 

Anna Hubbell’s nature v/as largely spiced with romance, 
and she had long sighed for a companion near her age, 
who would be the confidant of all her thoughts and feel- 
ings, and in Josephine Clayton, she fancied she had 
at last found the desired friend. She believed, too, it 
would be an act of kindness to lend her a helping hand, 
for Josepliine had often insinuated that reverse of fortune, 
alone, had placed her where she was. To her father 
Anna first communicated her plan, seizing her opportu- 
nity when he was not only free from gout, but had also 
just beaten her at chess three times out of four. First 
she descanted on Josephine’s extreme beauty and natural 


330 


THE GABLE-ROOFED HOUSE AT SNOWDON. 


refinement of manner ; next she spoke of the misfortune 
which had obliged her to become a milliner, and finished 
her argument by telling how lonely she herself was, 
when obliged by ill health to remain in the house for 
weeks. 

Mr. Hubbell heard her through, and then striking the 
ashes from his cigar, said, “ Why don’t you come to the 
point at once, and say you want this girl to pet, flatter, 
and make a fool of you generally ? ” 

“ And if I do,” answered Anna, “ you have no objec- 
tions, have you ? ” And Anna wound her arms around 
her father’s neck, until a twinge of the gout suddenly re- 
turning, he threw her half way across the room, exclaim- 
ing, “ For pity’s sake and the old Harry, lug in a wash- 
woman for all of me, if you wish to ! ” 

So the matter was settled, and in the course of an hour, 
a note was dispatched to Josephine, bidding her come 
that evening, if possible, as her friend had something 
pleasant to communicate. Just as the street lamps were 
lighted, Josephine ascended the marble steps of Mr. 
Hubbell’s stately dwelling, and in a moment was in An- 
na’s room, where she soon learned why she was sent for. 
So unexpected was the proposal, that for a time she was 
mute with surprise, and then on her knees she thanked 
Anna Hubbell for the great good she was doing her. 

The bells of the city were tolling the hour of nine ere 
Josephine returned to her pleasant room at Mrs. Lam- 
port’s, which now looked poor and humble, compared 
with the elegant home she was soon to have. When 
Mrs. Lamport was informed of the plan, she refused to 
release Josephine until the term of her apprenticeship 
should have expired, alleging, as one reason, that Jose- 
phine might sometime find her trade of great service to 
her. Accordingly, though much against her will, Jose- 


JOSEPHINE. 


331 


pliine was obliged to remain until the end of the six 
niosilhs ; but she resolved not to go home, and about the 
time when she would be expected, she wrote to her pa- 
rents, telling them of her future prospects, and saying 
that, as Miss Hubbell wished for her immediately, she 
should be obliged to forego her expected visit. 

Owing to some mistake, this letter did not reach its 
destination, and Jimmy, all impatient to see his beloved 
sister, started for the city on purpose to accompany her 
home. Going to Mrs. Lamport’s, he was told that “ Jose- 
phine had gone out shopping.” “ Gone to buy some 
presents for mother, I presume,” thought he, as he re- 
traced his steps through the crowded streets. Coming 
to a jeweler’s shop, he concluded to step in, as he had 
long contemplated the purchase of a watch. At the fur- 
ther end of the store were seated two young ladies, sur- 
rounded by jewelry, from which they were making selec- 
tions. As Jimmy entered the door, one of the young la- 
dies glanced at him; their eyes met, and involuntarily 
Jimmy started forward, half exclaiming, “ Josejihine ! ” 
but the lady’s lip curled scornfully, and a dark frown low- 
ered on her brow as she turned quickly away. Jimmy 
was puzzled, and glancing, for the first time, at the young 
girl’s dress, he thought, “Of course ’t is n’t Josephine; 
what a blunder I should have made ! ” 

Just then the clerk asked him to step into an adjoining 
room, where they would show him the kind of watches 
he wished^ for. As he was passing the two ladies, the one 
whose face he had not seen looked up at him. He would 
have thought no more of this occurrence, had he not over- 
heard her say to her companion, “ Why, Josephine, that 
young man looks enough like you to be your brother.” 

The reply, too, he distinctly heard, uttered in Jose- 
phine’s well remembered voice : “ Oh fie, Miss Hubbell ! 


S32 


THE GABLE-EOOFED HOUSE AT SNOWDON. 


pray, don’t take that cloivnish clod-pole to be my 
brother ! ” 

Jimmy instantly turned toward the speaker, but with 
her companion she was leaving the shop. Mechanically 
declining to purchase anything, he also left, and, going to 
the hotel, called for a room, where, locking himself in, he 
'burst into a flood of tears. “Josephine, his sister Jose- 
phine, was ashamed to own him, — had denied him ! ” 

For half an hour he wept bitterly ; then over him a reac- CH 
tion stole, and rising up, he rapidly paced the room, say- 
ing, ’•'‘Ashamed of me / — she shall see the day when she 
will be glad that I am her brother.” Then in that little 
room was a resolution made, and a course of life marked 
out w^hich made for America a son of whom she has since 
been proud. 

That evening Jimmy met his sister at Mrs. Lamport’s, 
but not as in the olden time. A change had come over 
him, which even Josephine noticed, although she scarcely 
regretted it. He offered no remonstrance when told that 
she would not accompany him home ; but, after bidding 
her good-by, he turned back, and with a scarcely steady 
voice, said, “ When I return home, and mother, your 
mother, weeps because you do not come, shall I tell her 
that you sent no word of love ? ” 

- “Why, Jim,” said Josephine, “what a strange mood 
you are in to-night ! Of course, I send my love to all of 
them. Have n’t I told you so ? If I have n’t, it was be- 
cause I forgot it.” 

“ One of us, at least, wull not forget you so easily,” an- 
swered Jimmy, but he told not what fresh cause he had 
for remembrance. 


% 


A PEEP AT THE GABLE-EOOEEl) HOTTSE. 


8S3 


CHAPTER II. 

A PEEP AT THE GABLE-BOOEED HOUSE AT SNOWDOU*. 

Keveb was floor scoured whiter than was the floor in 
the long, dark kitchen at Snowdon, on the day when Mrs. 
Clayton, with a mother’s joy, said, “ Josephine is com- 
ing to-night.” Everything within told of recent renova- 
tion and fixing up, and the large square room, whose four 
bare walls had echoed back the first shrill cry of Uncle 
Isaac’s seven children, now looked really neat and pretty, 
with its bright rag carpet, its polished brass andirons, 
and its six flag-bottomed chairs, for the old red-backs had 
long since been removed to the kitchen, their place being 
supplied by six yellow chairs, which now in turn gave up 
their long standing right to flag-bottoms of a more mod- 
ern date. 

The two boys who lived nearest came home, the one 
bringing several pounds of cofiee, while the other brought 
the snow-white sugar loaf, which was only to be used in 
Josephine’s cup, for “Josephine was coming home.” 
Yes, “Josephine was coming home,” and Uncle Isaac fin- 
ished work full three hours earlier, in order that he might 
have ample time to remove the heavy beard, don the 
clean linen, and assume the blue, Sunday coat with the 
brass buttons. 

In one corner of the old rickety barn, a turkey,’ the 
only turkey Isaac Clayton owned, had long been fatten- 
ing, and now in the oven was roastmg, for “Josephine 
was coming home;” and as the sun drew nearer and 
nearer to the western horizon, Mrs. Clayton’s step grew 
lighter, while the smile on her face grew brighter and 
more exultant. Again was the white coimterpane on the 


334 


THE GABLE-EOOPED HOUSE AT SNOWDON. 


best bed smoothed, and the large round pillows gently 
patted, for Josephine’s soft, fair cheek would ere long 
nestle there. Alas ! poor, fond, but disappointed mother! 
The Josephine, so .anxiously waited for, slept that night 
on finer linen and softer couch than could be found, I 
ween, ’neath the gable-roofed house at Snowdon. 

Now the sun has set behind a pile of purple clouds, 
and there is darkness in the nooks and comers of the 
house at Snowdon. The maple fire in the large square 
room is crackling and laughing and blazing, and casting 
on the somber walls fantastic shadows, which chase each 
other, “ chassee, cross over, and then cross back,” while 
to the dancing fiames Uncle Isaac adds still another stick, 
for it is a raw March night, and Josephine ^vill be cold. 
Upon the time-worn bridge which crosses Snowdon creek 
is heard the sound of wheels ; and the crack of the driver’s 
whip, together with the tramp of many feet, shows that 
the stage is coming at last. But what ! Why does not 
the driver stop at the little board gate which stands so 
invitingly open? Is he going to let Josephine dismount 
in the muddy street ? 

Before these queries are satisfactorily solved, the stage 
rattles on, and only Jimmy stands among them, beset by 
inquiries for Josephine. 

“ Wait until I ^et to the fire and I will tell you,” said 
he, as he blew his red fingers ; but Mrs. Clayton could 
not wait, and leading him toward the house, she said, 
“ Tell me, is Josephine sick ? ” 

“Perfectly well, I believe,” he answered, and then, 
when seated before the cheerful blaze, he told them why 
he was alone ; but of the insult he had received he said 
nothing. That was a secret, which he kept to himself^ 
brooding over it until its venom ate into his inmost soul. 

It was a sad group which gathered around the supper 


A PEEP AT THE GABLE-ROOPED HOUSE. 


335 


table that night; and, as over the dishes she had prepared 
with so much care Jimmy saw his mother’s tears fall, his 
heart swelled with resentment, and he longed to tell her 
how unworthy was the selfish girl who scoraed her own 
brother, but he did not, though he resolved, by an in- 
creased kindness of manner, to compensate his honored 
mother for the love which Josephine refused to give. 
Noble Jimmy I In this world there are choice spirits like 
yours, but their name is not legion I 

Next morning the two older boys returned to their em- 
ployment, while Mr. Clayton sold to Mabel Howland, who 
had long coveted them, the fairy-like slippers, which for 
two weeks he had kept for his daughter ; and amid a rain 
of tears Mrs. Clayton put away in the drawer the lamb’s- 
wool stockings which she had knit for J osephine, weaving 
in with each thread the golden fibers of a mother’s undy- 
ing love. After his daily work was done, Jimmy stole 
up to the little green trunk under the gable-roof where 
lay the pile of bright half dollars he had hoarded for Jo- 
sephine. Counting out half, he threw them into his moth- 
er’s lap, and with the remainder repaired to the Snowdon 
bookstore, exchanging them for their value in books. 
The old desire for learning had returned, and early and 
late was each leisure moment improved. His parents of- 
fered no opposition, but approved his plan of reciting two 
hours each day to Mr. Allen, the clergyman, who became 
much interested in the young student. “ Excelsior” -was 
Jimmy’s motto, and his teacher became surprised at the 
rapid improvement and the magnitude of the mind com- 
mitted to his care. Ere long, Jimmy’s fame as a scholar 
became known throughout the village, attracting toward 
him many who had never before noticed the humble boy, 
except, perhaps, to remark his fine face and figure. Now, 
however, they came thi’ongiiig about him, offering books 


33tt THE GABLE-EOOFEI) HOUSE AT SKOWHON. 

and advice in large quantities* But Jiinmy respectfully 
declined their attentions, for Mr. Allen’s library, to which 
he had free access, contained whatever books he needed, 
and his good sense, together with Mr. Allen’s experience, 
furnished all the advice necessary. At one time Mr. Al- 
len hoped that the brilliant talents, which he knew his 
young friend possessed, would be devoted to the minis- 
try; but Jimmy’s taste and disposition turned toward 
the bar, and as Judge Howland was in want of a clerk, 
Mr. Clayton was induced to give up the services of his 
son, who now bent all his energies upon the study of law, 
and the course of instruction which Mr. Allen had marked 
out for him. Leaving him to pursue his onward path to 
greatness, we will return to Josephuie, who for some 
time has been the bosom friend and companion of Anna 
Hubbell. 


CHAPTER HI. 

LOCUST GEOVE. 

About fifty miles west of the city, at the foot of a 
bright sheet of water, lies the small village of Lockland, 
consisting of one broad, handsome street, and two narrow 
ones, diverging at right angles. The quiet which forever 
reigns in this secluded spot, seemed not unlike the deep 
hush of a Sabbath morning. In the center of the village 
stand the two dry goods stores, where kind-hearted clerks, 
in consideration of its being you^ measured off calico at a 
shilling per yard, which positively cost fifteen cents, and 
silks for a dollar, which could n’t be bought in the city 
for less than a dollar and a quarter. 


LOCUST GROVE. 


837 


Directly opposite these sacrificing stores stands the ho- 
tel, on whose creaking old sign is written in flaming let- 
ters, “ Temperance House,” although the village gossips, 
particularly the woman who lives next door, have fre- 
quently hmted, confidentially of course, that the word 
“temperance” was all humbug. Side by side with the 
hotel stands the old brick church, the only church in 
Dockland. 

A little out of the village, and on an eminence^ which 
overlooks it, is a handsome, white cottage, which, from 
the number of locust trees around it, had long been 
known as “ Locust Grove.” This cottage was the prop- 
erty of Mrs. Wilson, Anna Hubbell’s grandmother, and 
thither, each summer, Anna repaired, in hopes of coaxing 
to her pale cheeks the hue of the roses which grew in 
such profusion around the doors, windows, and porticos 
of her grandmother’s dwelling. 

Across the way was another, a large building, elegant 
in structure and imposing in appearance. It was owned 
by Gen. Granby, who had retired from public life, and 
was living upon the interest of his money. These two 
families were on terms of intimacy with but few of the 
villagers, and consequently were called proud and haughty 
by those who had nothing to do except to canvass afiTairs 
at Locust Grove and Elmwood Lodge, as Gen. Granby’s 
residence was termed. 

One morning in early June, the little village suddenly 
found itself in a state of fermentation, occasioned by Mrs. 
Wilson’s traveling carriage, which passed up Main street, 
and from the windows of which looked forth, not only the 
plain, delicate features of Anna Hubbell, but also another, a 
most beautiful face. Such eyes, such curls, and more than 
all, so dazzling a complexion, had seldom been seen in Lock- 
land, and the villagers were all eager to know who the 
22 


338 


THE GABLE-EOOFED HOUSE AT SKOWDOIf. 


stranger could be, and why Anna Hubbeil had brought her 
there. Did she not fear her influence over George Granby, 
to whom, for a long time, she was known to have been en- 
gaged, and who, with his sister Delphine, had been travel- 
ing in Europe, and was now daily expected home ? Still 
more was the gossip increased when, that afternoon. Lock- 
land’s back parlors and sitting rooms were vacated by their 
inmates, who from behind half-raised curtains and half- 
closed shutters, peeped out, while with long black skirts 
and leghorn hats, Anna Hubbeil and her companion gal- 
loped leisurely through the village and down upon the lake 
shore. But not upon Anna did an eye rest. All v/ere 
fixed upon the lady at her side, whose red lips curled in 
scorn at the same curiosity of which she had often been 
guilty in the gable-roofed house in far off Snowdon. 

That night, in Anna’s dressing-room, Josepbine was 
weeping, and to Anna’s repeated inquiries as to the cause 
of her tears, she at last answered, “ It is foolish, but I 
cannot help it. In the city all knew I was your hired 
companion, but here, in the country, — oh, need they 
know ? ” 

“ I appreciate your feelings,” said Anna, “ but rest as- 
sured that no one shall know you are not fully my equal. 
Grandmother, indeed, knows your real position, but if I 
request it, she will be silent.” 

So the terrible secret that Josephine was pooi\ and a 
dependent, was kept from the villagers, who marveled at 
her great beauty and the richness of her attire, for all her 
wages were expended in dress, Not one penny ever 
found its way to Snowdon, vrhere it would have been joy- 
fully received, not because they w^ere in actual vr ant of it, 
but because it came from Josephine. 

Mrs. Granby, who was an amiable and lady-like woman, 
treated Josephine with great cordiality, frequently ex- 


LOCUST GEOVE. 


339 


pressing a wish that her daughter, Delphine, would re- 
turn, as it would be so pleasant for her to have two com- 
panions so near. Josephine had no objections to seeing 
George Granby, whose many excellences Anna each day 
lauded to the sides, but she greatly dreaded the return 
of Miss Granby. Six years before, when but a child, she 
remembered that Mabel Howland had one day brought 
to school a cousin, Dell Granby, two or three years her 
senior, and whose place of residence she felt sure was at 
Dockland. Always fearing that her humble parentage 
might be discovered, she trembled lest Dell Granby 
should recognize her, or that in some way her real posi- 
tion should become known. 

“ I shall soon know the worst,” thought she, as one af- 
ternoon, about three weeks after her arrival at Dockland, 
she saw a handsome carriage drive up in front of Gen. 
Granby’s residence. From it sprang a gentleman, who 
was quickly follow’ed by a young lady of remarkably ele- 
gant appearance. After embracing Mrs. Granby, who 
came out to meet her, she turned toward the window, 
where Josephine was sitting, and thmking it was Anna, 
playfully threw a kiss from the tips of her snowy, jeweled 
fingers ; then she instantly disappeared in the long hall, 
followed by the gentleman. 

“That must be Dell Granby,” thought Josephine; “but 
if that is her brother, he is not one-half as fine looking as 
Anna has described him to be ; but then she is in love, 
and of course no judge.” 

Just then, Anna, who had been sleeping, awoke. On 
hearing of Delphine’s arrival, her cheeks alternately 
flushed and grew pale, as she nervously ordered her wait- 
ing maid to dress her becomingly, preserving at the same 
time the utmost simplicity. When her toilet was com- 
pleted, she asked Josephine’s opinion. Both were stand- 


340 


THE GABLE-ROOFED HOUSE AT SNOWDON. 


ing before the mirror, and as Josephine noticed the con- 
trast between herself, dressed as usual, and Anna, arrayed 
in the most becoming manner, the thought for the first 
time entered her mind, that if possible she would supplant 
her benefactress in George Granby’s affections. 

At that moment a servant entered, bearuig a tiny note. 
Anna hastily read it, and then throwing nerself on the 
sofa, burst into tears. Josephine ordered the servant 
girl to leave the room, and then, while Anna’s face was 
buried in her hands, she picked up the note, and in a la- 
dy’s delicate handwriting, read : 

“ Dear Anna — I know you will be provoked ; I w'as, 
but I have recovered my equanimity now. -George, the 
naughty boy, has not come home. He is going to re- 
main for two years in a German university. I am the 
bearer of many letters and presents for you, which you 
must come for. Hugh M’Gregor accompanied me home. 
You remember I wrote you about him. We met in Paris, 
since which time he has clung to me like a brother, and I 
don’t know whether to like him or not. He is rich and 
well educated, but terribly awkward. It would make 
you laugh to see him trying to play the agreeable to the 
ladies; and then, — shall I tell you |he dreadful thing? 
he wears a wig^ and is ten years older than I am ! Now, 
you know if I liked him very much^ all this would make no 
difierence, for I would marry anything but a cobbler, if I 
loved him, and he were intelligent. 

“ By the way, mamma tells me there is a handsome 
young lady with you, but whether in the capacity of 
seamstress or companion, I have not found time to ask. 
Pray, come over, sans ceremonie, 

“ Yours, as ever, Dell.” 


LOCUST GROVE. 


341 


The cause of Anna’s grief can be explained in a few 
words. Two years before, when only sixteen, she had 
been betrothed to George Granby, whom she ardently 
loved, fearing, at the same time, that her affection was but 
half returned. Their engagement had been a sort of fam- 
ily arrangement, in which George tacitly acquiesced, for 
Anna was not indifferent to him, although she possessed 
but few attractions which could fascinate a fashionable 
young man of twenty-two. Still, he had never seen one 
whom he liked better, and as Anna was extremely young, 
he hoped that during the five years which were to elapse 
before their marriage, she would be greatly improved. 

The last year he had spent in Europe, whither his sis- 
ter, a girl of superior endowments, had accompanied him. 
He wrote frequently to Anna, his letters being more 
like a brother’s than a lover’s. Still she prized them 
higlily, and had looked forward joyfully to his return. 
But now he was not coming, and as she threw herself 
upon the sofa, she thought, with some reason, “ I know 
he does not love me.” 

Josephine, too, was disappointed. If George came not, 
her plan could not well be carried out. But not long did 
she dwell upon this. The words “seamstress,” and “com- 
panion,” troubled Ifer, and awoke within her heart a ha- 
tred for Delphine Granby, as undying as it was unfounded. 
Soon, however, her thoughts took another channel. This 
M’Gregor, was he not worth winning ; suppose he was 
awkward, he was rich! and Josephine smiled exultingly, 
as, glancing in the mirror, she smoothed her luxuriant 
curls, and said, “ the shoemaker’s daughter will yet out- 
shine them all.” 


342 


THE GABLE-ROOFED HOTJLE AT SNOWDOIT. 


CHAPTER IV. 

DELPHINE AI^D M’GEEGOE. 

liSr Mrs. Wilson’s parlors Josej^liine first met th^ two 
persons who were so greatly to influence her after life. 
It was the day following their arrival, and Anna had in- 
vited them to tea. Pleading a headache, Josephine did 
not make her appearance until evening, thinking her 
charms would he greatly enhanced by candle light. 

With all the dignity of a queen she swept into the 
room, and Anna herself Vv^as surprised at the ease with 
which she returned the salutations of M’Gregor and Del- 
phine. Seating herself upon a low ottoman, she for a 
time seemed unconscious of M’Gregor’s presence, but 
fixed her eyes curiously upon Delphine, who, *8110 con- 
cluded, was the most polished, lady-like person she had 
ever seen. Envy, too, crept in, and mingled with her 
admiration, for though she knew Miss Granby was not as 
beautiful as herself, there was still a nobleness, an ele- 
gance of appearance about her, Avhich would readily dis- 
tinguish her from a thousand. 

At length it was Delphine’s turn to look, and her bright 
hazel eyes fastened upon Josephine, whose face turned 
scarlet, for she fancied that the hated words, “ milliner,” 

shoemaker,” “ gable-roof,” were stamped upon her brow 
as legibly as “ seamstress,” ‘‘ companion,” were written 
in the tiny note. Delphine was puzzled at Josephine’s 
confusion, but soon forgetting it, she complied with An- 
na’s request, and seated herself at the piano. 

“Do you play. Miss Clayton? ” asked M’Gregor. 

“No, sir,” was the reply. 


DELPHINE M’GREGOE. 


343 


“ Nor sing ? ” he returned, 

“ Certainly not,” Josephine answered somewhat haugh- 
tily. “If I could sing I should play, of course. They 
usually go together.” . 

M’Gregor was taken aback. He was perfectly bewil- 
dered w'ith J osephine’s beauty, although her cool reserve 
had slightly disconcerted him ; and as he was nothing of a 
lady’s man, he had tried hard to think of something to 
say to her, and now that he said it, ’twas not the thing. 
Josephine, however, had scanned him from head to foot, 
wig and all, and with Delphine’s assertion, “ he is rich,” 
still ringing in her ears, she had secretly concluded that 
he would do, in spite of his awkwardness. Fearing lest 
he should question her on other points than music, she 
did not wait for him to broach another subject, but did it 
herself, by asking about his European tour. 

Once during the evening she heard Helphine telling 
Anna that on her return home she had stopped for a day 
and a night with her cousin Mabel, at Snowdon. In an 
instant her brow became crimson ; but her fears were 
groundless, for not a word was spoken of the “ gable- 
roof,” and her heart was beginning to beat at its usual 
rate, when Delphine added, “ By the way, Anna, I must 
tell you that at Snowdon I saw my heau ideaV* 

“Indeed,” said Anna, and M’Gregor continued: “Oh, 
yes, and she has done nothing since but talk of the hand- 
some student, who is still in his minority.” 

“What is his name? ” asked Anna. 

“ Clayton, I believe,” answered M’Gregor, and then 
turning to Josephine, he said, “A relative of yours, per- 
haps ! You remind me of him.” 

“ I am not aware of his being so, for I have no rela- 
tions in Snowdon!” was Josephine’s unhesitating an- 
swer; and in the first part of the assertion, she spoke 


844 


THE GABLE-KOOFED HOUSE AT SNOWDOH. 


the truth, for at Jimmy’s request, a knowledge of his 
studies had been kept from her, and she did not believe 
that Jimmy, her homespun brother, could possibly inter- 
est the elegant Miss Granby. 

But all doubt on the subject was removed, when, as 
Delphine was about to depart, she remarked, “ There is 
something, too, so romantic about this young Clayton. 
His father, as I am told, is a poor shoemaker at Snowdon, 
and his son, until recently, has worked with him at his 
trade. Just think of it, a learned shoemaker. Of course 
he will be a great man ; ” and she ran gaily down the 
steps followed by M’Gregor, horribly jealous of Jimmy 
Clayton, two-thirds in love with Josephine Clayton, and 
never suspecting the relationship between them. 

That night Josephine bitterly repented her falsehood, 
for if Delphine Granby could be interested in Jimmy, 
knowing his poverty, she really would not scorn his sis- 
ter; but ’twas too late to retract, and though she knew that, 
sooner or later, her lie would be known, she resolved to 
put a bold face upon the matter and make the best of it. 
She had never spoken of Snowdon as being the residence 
of her parents, consequently Anna had no suspicion that 
the student whom Delphine extolled so highly was in any 
way connected with her protege. 

It would make our story too long to enumerate the 
many ways in which Josephine sought to enslave 
M’Gregor, who for three weeks lingered at Dockland, 
vacillating between Delphine and herself. Josephine 
fascinated him, but there was about her something 
which bade him beware; and he never would have 
thought seriously of her, had not Delphine kindly but 
firmly refused the hand he ofiered her, her mother mean- 
time wondering what she could object to, for if he was 
not quite as polished as some, he was rich, well educated, 


DELPHINE AND M’GREGOE. 


845 


and amiable to a fault, or as one of the villagers said, 
“wonderful clever.” But it was this very cleverness 
which Delphine disliked. Had M’Gregor possessed more 
intellect, more energy and decision of character, she 

might , but no, she had seen Jimmy Clayton, and 

though she would not own it, either to herself or to 
M’Gregor, the remembrance of his high, classical brow, 
bright, intelligent eye, and sad, handsome face, influenced 
her decision. 

After M’Gregor’s first mortification was over, he turned 
to Josephine, and in the sunshine of her smiles soon for- 
got that Delphine had said, “I can never love you;” 
but, other than by actions, he did not commit himself, and 
when he left Dockland, he was not pledged to Josephine, 
who for several days kept her bed, troubling in every 
possible way poor Mrs. Wilson, who wondered at her 
grand-daughter’s fancy in choosing such a companion, as 
much as Aunt Sally wondered at my choice of a subject. 


CHAPTER V. 

JIMMY. 

Thick and fast from the heavy laden clouds the fringed 
snow-flakes had fallen the livelong day, . covering side- 
walk and street, doorstep and roof, with one thick vail of 
whiteness. As the night closed in, the feathered flakes 
ceased to fall, while in the western sky the December sun 
left a few red beams, the promise of a fair to-morrow. 
In Mr. Hubbell’s parlor the astral lamp was lighted, and 
O* 


846 


THE GABLE-ROOFED HOUSE AT SNOWDON. 


coals were heaped in the glowing grate, whose bright blaze 
rendered still more brilliant the flowers of the costly 
Brussels. Curtains of rich damask shaded the windows, 
and around the marble center-table were seated our fair 
friends, Josephine, Anna, and Delphine, the last of whom 
had recently come to spend the winter in the city. 

Josepliine seemed nervously anxious, starting up at ev- 
ery sound, and then blushing as she resumed her former 
attitude. The cause of her restlessness was, that she was 
hourly expecting Mr. M’Gregor, her affianced husband ! 
Two weeks before she left Lockland he had visited her, 
and ere his return she had promised to be his wife, re- 
gretting, meantime, the fatality which left George Granby 
across the Atlantic until she was given to another. “ If 
I could only see him,” thought she, “ only have an oppor- 
tunity to judge of his merits and my chance of success ; ” 
but it could not be. The ocean lay between them ; so 
she engaged herself to M’Gregor, with many assurances 
of affection, of the sincerity of which our readers can 
' judge as well as . ourselves. 

As yet Delphine had no thought that her “ beau ideal ” 
was aught to Josephine, although Anna knew it all. 
Compelled by necessity, Josephine had, with many tears 
and protestations of grief, confessed her falsehood, and 
Anna not only forgave her, but weakly took her again 
to her confidence, thinking her sufficiently punished by 
the sorrow she professed to have felt on account of her 
sin. 

M’Gregor had written that he should probably be in 
the city that night, and each moment they wore expecting 
him. At length the sound x)f a footstep was heard on the 
threshold, the door-bell echoed through the hall, Delphine 
and Anna exchanged smiles, while Josephine half rose 
from her seat, and as the parlor door opened the six eyes 


.nMi>nr. 


347 


of the three girls fell upon — M’Gregor ? no, not M’Gregor, 
but Jimmy Clayton ! He had come to the city on busi- 
ness for Judge Howland, and had been commissioned by 
'jVIabel to carry a letter to her cousin Helphine, besides 
her love, which of course could not be sent in a letter ! 

Delphine arose to meet him, but not on her did his eye 
rest. It wandered on until it fell upon Josephine, to 
whom Helphine immediately introduced him. A little 
sarcastically he answered, “Thank you. Miss Granby, 
but I hardly need an introduction to my own sister ! ” 

“ Your sister ! ” repeated Delphine. “ Impossible ! ’’ 
And she glanced quickly at Josephine, who seeing no es- 
cape' sprang forward, overwhelming Jimmy with caresses 
and questions concerning Snowdon and its inhabitants, 
taking care to inquire after the rich and those v/hom Deb 
phine had probably heard of, though she herself had 
never exchanged over a dozen words with them. 

After a time Jimmy gave Delphine her letter, which 
she received with a smile and a glance of her eyes which 
made his blood tingle, and when Anna asked him if it 
were not unpleasant traveling, he answered, “ Quite well, 
I thank you ! ” 

By this time Josephine’s old coldness had returned. 
She was afraid M’Gregor might come, and, although she 
was not now ashamed to own her brother, she feared the 
result. Jimmy soon arose to go, but Anna insisted upon 
his remaining all night. This plan Delphine warmly sec- 
onded, and Jimmy began to waver. He looked at his 
sister, one word from whom would have decided the mat- 
ter, but that word was not spoken, and Jimmy departed, 
saying he would call again on the morrow. 

Scarcely had the door closed after him when Delphine 
looked sternly and inquiringly at Josephine, who, in the 
most theatrical manner, fell upon her knees, sobbing out 


848 


THE GABLE-ROOFED HOUSE AT SNOWDON. 


the confession of her falsehood, and finishing by saying, 
“ Do not betray me to M’Gregor, will you ? ” ' 

“M’Gregor!” repeated Delphine scornfully, “You 
wrong him if you suppose he would love you less for 
your poverty.” 

“ ’Tis not that, ’tis not that,” said Josephine, and Del- 
phine continued : “ But he would despise you for scorn- 
ing your own parents, and refusing to own a brother of 
whom you should be proud.” 

“But you will not betray me?” persisted Josephine. 
“ Promise that you will not, and a falsehood shall never 
again sully my lips.” 

“ Of course I shall not tell M’Gregor,” answered Del- 
phine, “ but it will be long ere I can again respect you.” 
Here Anna interposed a word for her friend, saying that 
“ Delphine had never known what it was to contend with 
poverty, and have the cold finger of scorn pointed at 
her ” 

“ And if I had,” interrupted Delphine, “ I should not 
revenge myself by pointing my finger at my parents and 
brother.” 

There now ensued an embarrassed silence, and, as it 
was past the hour for M’Gregor to arrive, Josephine re- 
paired to her room, gratified to think that if her sin had 
found her out, M’Gregor had not. 

The next day M’Gregor did not come, but Jimmy did, 
and as he was about to leave, he asked Josephine to accom- 
pany him home, saying his mother would be delighted to 
see her. Delphine waited for Josephine’s answer, that 
she could not go, as she was expecting a friend^ and 
then said, “ Suppose, Mr. Clayton, you take me as a sub- 
stitute.” 

“ You ! ” exclaimed Anna. “ You go to Snowdon 1 ” 


JIMMf. 


349 


“ Yes ; why not,” answered Delphine. “ Mabel is anx- 
ious to see me, and the sleighing is fine.” 

Accordingly, next morning, Jimmy’s sleigh stood be- 
fore Mr. Hubbell’s door, and Delphine, warmly wrapped 
in fUrs and merinos, tripped down the steps, and was 
soon seated by Jimmy, whose polite attentions during 
the ride only increased the estimation in which she held 
him. 

The same day that Delphine left the city, M’Gregor 
came, overjoyed to meet his beautiful Josephine, whom, 
with strange infatuation, he sincerely loved. That eve- 
ning, as they sat alone in the parlor, Josephine, fearing 
that in some way he might discover the falsehood, deter- 
mined to tell him herself. In the smoothest manner pos- 
sible, she told her story, saying that her parents now 
lived in Snowdon, but intimated that they had not al- 
ways resided there. Jimmy was then mentioned, and 
acknowledged to be her brother, although she said that 
he had been long in Judge Howland’s office ere she knew 
of it. 

M’Gregor heard her through, and then drawing her 
more closely toward him, assured her that he did not love 
her less for being poor, for he had never supposed her 
rich, and ended by proposing to accompany her to Snow- 
don. The proposal was made in such a way that Jose- 
phine could not refuse, but she determined not to go, for 
though M’Gregor might love her with poverty in the dis- 
tance, she fancied that a sight of the “old gable-roof” 
and “ shoemaker’s shop ” would at once drive him from 
her. The next day was fixed upon for the journey, but 
when the morning came, Josephine did not appear at the 
breakfast table, sending word that she was suffering 
from an attack of the influenzal Snowdon of course 
was given up, and M’Gregor paced the long parlors, 


350 


THE GABLE-EOOFEI) HOUSE AT SNOWDON. 


inquiring every ten minutes for Josephine, 'who knew 
enough not to he convalescent too soon^ and all day 
long did penance by keeping her bed and drinkmg herb 
tea. 


CHAPTER VI. 

SNOWDON. 

With unbounded delight Mabel welcomed her cousin 
Helphine, but she whispered, “How Dell, I know well 
enough that nothing but the agreeable escort of James 
Clayton could have brought you to this stupid j)lace in 
the winter.” 

Delphine’s only answer was a deeper glow on her cheek, 
which she declared was o'wing to the chill night air, and 
Mabel said no more on the subject until they retired for 
the night. Then, in the privacy of the dressing room 
and before a cheerful fire, she teased and tortured her 
cousin concerning her e'ddent preference for the young- 
student, saying, “ I know he is noble and generous, and 
father thinks him a gem of rare talents, but after all — ” 

“ After all what ? ” asked Delphine, suspending for a 
moment the operation of brushing her silken hair. 

“ Why he is of a very lovi family,” answered Mabel, and 
Delphine contmued : “ Why low ? Is there anything bad 
or disreputable about them ? ” 

“ Oh, no,” said Mabel. “ I don’t suppose there is a 
more honest, upright man in town than cobbler Clayton, 
but they are dreadfully poor, or, as mother says, shiftless. 
Why, Dell, one glance at the old gable-roof, and one 


SNOWDOK. 


351 


wliiff of the leather smell, constantly around it, would spoil 
all romance connected with the handsome son.” 

“ Pshaw ! ” was Delphine’s only reply, and there the 
conversation ended ; nor was it resumed agam until two 
or three days after, when Delphine announced her inten- 
tion of calling on Mrs. Clayton ! 

“ Call on Mrs. Clayton ? ” exclaimed Mabel, who was 
listlessly turning over the leaves of her music book, and 
occasionally striking the keys of her piano. “ Call on 
Mrs. Clayton ? You cannot be in earnest.” 

“ I am,” answered Delphine, and Mabel continued : 
“ Pray don’t ask me to accompany you.” 

“ You need not be alarmed on that score, as I greatly 
prefer going alone,” was Delphine’s answer, as she left the 
room. 

In a few moments she was on her way to the “ gable- 
roof,” which really looked poor enough ; for, as Mrs. How- 
land had expressed it. Uncle Isaac was rather “ shiftless,” 
and though he now had only himself and wife to care for, 
he was worth but Httle more than when, in years gone by, 
seven hungry children clustered aromid his fireside. His 
wife, who was greatly his superior, was a paragon of neat- 
ness, and made the most of what little she had. On this 
afternoon, with clean cap and gingham apron, she sat 
knitting, so wholly absorbed in her thoughts of Josephme, 
that, though thrice repeated, she heard not the timid 
knock of Delphine, nor was she aware of her presence un- 
til the lady stood before her. Then, in some confusion, 
she arose, but Delphine immediately introduced herself, 
apologizing for her call, by saying that she thought Mrs. 
Clayton might be glad to hear from Josephine. Eagerly 
then her hand was grasped, and for the next hour Mrs. 
Clayton listened breathlessly, while Delphine recounted 
everything concerning Josephine which she thought would 


352 


THE GABLE-EOOFED HOUSE AT SNOWDON. 


interest her mother. As she saw how many times the 
gingham apron was brought into requisition, to wipe away 
the tears of maternal love, she felt indignant toward the 
heartless girl who could thus spurn her home and fireside, 
because they lay beneath a gable-roof. 

Swiftly the time flew on, and though upon the polished 
stove the highly polished tea-kettle boiled and boiled, and 
then boiled over, Mrs. Clayton heard it not ; and though 
token after token that daylight was departing fell around 
them, still Delphine sat there, gazing at the high, placid 
brow and clear, hazel eyes of her new acquaintance, and 
tracing therein a likeness to Jimmy, who at last suddenly 
opened the door, astonished beyond measure when he found 
who was his mother’s companion. At his unexpected ap- 
pearance, Mrs. Clayton started up, exclaiming, “Bless me, 
it’s past tea time ! How I forgot myself! ” while Delphine, 
casting a rueful glance at the little narrow window, said, 
“ Dear me, how dark it is ! What shall I do ? ” 

“ Stay to tea,” answered Mrs. Clayton, “ and then Jim- 
my will see you home. He’d just as lief, I know ! ” 

For an instant Jimmy’s and Delphine’s eyes met, and 
the next moment a velvet cloak and rich hood were lying 
on the little lounge, while Delphine, demurely seating her- 
self in the corner, thought, “ How funny ! I wonder what 
Mabel will say. Perhaps she’ll think I came here on pur- 
pose to see him ; but I didn’t.” 

By this time tea was ready, and though the table lacked 
the transparent china, silver forks, and delicate napkins, 
to which Delphine had always been accustomed, she has 
frequently declared that never was tea so hot, bread so 
white, butter so sweet, or honey so delicious, as were they 
that night in Isaac Clayton’s sitting room. After supper, 
Jimmy, inasmuch as his mother had offered his services, 
felt in duty bound to conduct Miss Delphine home, and 


SNOWDON. 


853 


all the misgivings which she had felt as to what Mabel 
would say, were put to flight by that delightful moonlight 
walk. 

“ I declare, Dell,” was Mabel’s first exclamation, “ you 
are actually reversing the order of things, and paying 
your addresses to young Clayton, instead of waiting for 
him to pay them to you.” 

“And shows her sense, too,” said Judge Howland, who 
was present, “for James, who looks upon her as far 
above him, would never presume to address her first. 
But, Mab,” he continued, “ you had better have an eye on 
her, for, in case Dell does not secure him, I intend him for 
my own son-in-law.” 

“ Oh, capital! ” said Mabel, clapping her hands, “won’t 
that be nice ? He can attend to all of Uncle Isaac’s law- 
suits, and, in return. Uncle Isaac can make all our shoes.” 

“But I am in earnest,” said Judge Howland, seriously. 
“ You ’will never do better.” 

“ How absurd,” said Mabel. “ Why, he is six months 
younger than I am.” 

“Six months be hanged,” answered the judge. “Why, 
there’s your mother, five years my senior, though I be- 
lieve she owm to only one ! ” 

“ Mr. Howland, how can you talk so ? ” said the highly 
scandalized lady, who, with fair, round face, clear, blue 
eyes, and white, sound teeth, reaUy looked five years the 
junior of her portly spouse, and probably was. 

Had Jimmy been questioned concerning his feelings for 
Delphine Granby, he might have pointed to some bright 
star, which, while it hovered round and over his path- 
way, was still too far distant for him ever to hope to reach 
it. And yet, no matter how big the law book was which 
he opened, or how intently over its printed leaves he pored, 
one face, one form, and one voice ever came between him 

23 


854 


THE GABLE-ROOFED HOUSE AT SNOWDON. 


and his studies ; and once, in maldng out a bond, he wrote, 
instead of “ Know all men by these presents, “ Know 
Delphine Granby ^ &c.,” nor was he aware of his mistake, 
xmtil, with the best natured twinkle in the world, Judge 
Howland pointed it out, saying, “Kot so bad, after all; 
for if a woman knows it, ail the world stand a fair chance 
of kno'vving it, too.” 

Poor Jimmy ! Hoav he blushed, and stammered, and 
apologized, apologized, stammered, and blushed, while 
the judge good humoredly said, “ Never mind; Dell 
is a girl of the right stamp, and if you play your cards 
right, ’tis not her fault if you do not win her.” 


CHAPTER VII. 

THE NEW HOUSE. 

Christmas came and went during Delphine’s stay at 
Snowdon, and a few days after it, she went to visit Mrs. 
Clayton, who with eager joy told her that Christmas 
morning she had received from the city a hundred dollar 
bill, enclosed in an envelope, on which was simply written, 
“ Do with it as you see fit.” A deep flush mounted to 
Delphine’s brow as she quietly remarked, “You must 
have some unknown friend in the city.” 

“ Oh, no,” said Mrs. Clayton, “ it was Josephine of 
course ; she is a dear good girl, and then she speaks about 
it so modestly.” 

“What does she say?” quickly asked Delphine, and 
Mrs. Clayton replied, “I immediately wrote to her, thank- 


THE NEW HOUSE. 


355 


ing her for the money, and saying I hoped she did not 
rob herself. To-day I got her answer, in which she merely 
alluded to the subject by saying that whatever she gave 
me I must enjoy without thinking she was denying 
herself.” 

“ She is worse than I supposed,” thought Delphine, but 
she said nothing, while Mrs. Clayton continued : “ It has 
come in the right time, too, and is just what we need.” 

Then she proceeded to tell Delphine how for years they 
had tried to lay by enough to build a house, which would 
cost about one thousand dollars. “We have already nine 
hundred, and with this one hundred we shall venture to 
commence.” 

Here the conversation ceased, and Delphine, soon 
after, returned home. Many were the consultations 
which she afterwards held with Mrs. Clayton concerning 
the construction of the new house, apian of which she and 
Jimmy at length proposed drawing. This took a deal of 
time, and frequently kept them together for hours ; but 
at length the plan was completed, and Delphine returned 
to the city, leaving Snowdon all a blank to Jimmy, who, 
solitary and alone, pursued his studies. 

In the spring the house was commenced, and early in 
autumn there stood in the corner of Isaac Clayton’s gar- 
den, a small, handsome cottage, contrasting strangely with 
the brown old gable-roof, which in a rage shook off a few 
shingles and clapboards, as at Jimmy’s suggestion a poor 
widow, with three children to feed and nothing to feed 
them with, was placed in it, rent free. One act of charity 
made way for another, for the woman thus assisted took 
from the poor house, where she had been for more than a 
year, her blind old mother, who gladly exchanged the cold 
charities of a pauper’s home, for a seat by her daughter’s 
fireside. 


35G 


THE GABLE-EOOFED HOUSE AT SNOWDON. 


Alas ! witliin the fairest flower is found the sharpest 
thorn. Scarcely had three months passed since Isaac Clay- 
ton and his wife had taken possession of their new home, 
when over their quiet dwelling the dark paU of death was 
unfurled, covering with its shadow the wife, who, for more 
than thirty years, had walked faithfully and lovingly by 
the side of her husband. Fever, which took the typhoid 
form, settled upon her, and when the physician who at- 
tended her was questioned concerning the probable re- 
sult, he shook his head mournfully to the group of six 
young men, who, with filial afiection, had gathered around 
their mother’s sick-bed. 

And where all this time was Josephine ? Why came 
she not to soothe her mother’s last great agony, and 
administer consolation to those who, stern of heart and 
strong of nerve, still in the hour of affliction bent like 
a broken reed? Yes, where was she? This question 
Mrs. Clayton often asked, for at the commencement of 
her illness a letter had been dispatched, to which no an- 
swer had been received, and at last Jimmy was sent to 
bring her home. Judge Howland kindly offered his cov- 
ered sleigh and horses, and as Jimmy was driving from 
the yard, Mabel, who knew that Delphine was in the city, 
requested him if convenient to bring her cousin back with 
him, saying that Kate Lawrence, a mutual friend and 
school-mate of theirs, was then visiting her, and wished to 
see Delphine. 

Jimmy drove nearly all night, and at davm of day the 
spires and roofs of the city were discernible in the dis- 
tance. Impatiently he waited at a hotel, until an hour 
when he thought Mr. Hubbell’s family would be astir. 
Then going to the house, he nervously rang the doorbell. 
His call was answered by a servant girl. 

“ Is Miss Clayton at home ? ” he asked. 


THE NEW HOUSE. 


357 


“ She is,’’ was the answer. 

“ I must see her, instantly,” said he. 

The girl eyed him curiously, and replied, “ What name 
shall I give her ? ’cause, unless it’s something extraordina- 
ry, she won’t see you. It’s her wedding day.” 

Jimmy handed her his card, and then in the parlor sat 
down to await her coming. In an upper room Josephine 
was seated, together with Anna and Delphine, who un- 
willingly had consented to be present at the wedding, and 
had tvdce nearly broken her promise not to acquaint 
M’Gregor with the nature of her he was taking to his bo- 
som. As Josephine glanced at the card which the servant 
girl gave her, she exclaimed, “ What can Jim want in the 
city at this time ? ” 

“ Oh, is J ames Clayton here ? ” asked Delphine. “ How 
fortunate ? ” 

Josephine’s manner changed, as she said faintly, “ Yes, 
’tis fortunate, for now he can see me married. But I 
wonder what he wants.” 

“ Go down and see,” answered Delphine, and Anna ad- 
ded, “ Or ask him up here to see Dell;” to which Jose- 
phine rejoined, “Delphine can go down with me — I wish 
she would.” 

Acting on the impulse of the moment, Delphine accom- 
panied Josephine to the parlor. But the sight of Jimmy’s 
pale, sad face alarmed her, and she instantly asked, 
“ What is the matter ? Is any one dead ? ” 

He soon told all, and then repeated to Delphine Mabel’s 
request that she, too, should accompany him to Snowdon. 
Without once thinking it possible that his sister could re- 
fuse, he asked how soon she would be ready. Bursting into 
tears, which arose more from the dilemma in which she was 
placed than from actual grief, Josephine wrung her hands, 
saying, “ Oh, I cannot go, I cannot. To-night is my bridal 


358 


THE GABLE-ROOFED HOUSE AT SXOWDOIf. 


night. The guests are all invited, and I cannot go. Mother 
■will not die. I know she will not. She must live, and 
to-morrow I Avill surely come.” 

Jimmy was confounded, but ere he had time to open 
his mouth, another had stepped in to plead his cause. 
“Josephine Clayton,” she said, more sternly than ever be- . 
fore she had spoken to her — “ I have long known that 
you had no heart, but I did not suppose you so perfectly 
callous as not to go when your dying mother bids you 
come. I would leave all the bridegrooms in the world to 
go to mine. Go, or I shall blush that I, too, am a 
woman ! ” 

Angrily Josephine turned upon her, saying, “Who are 
you that presumes to question my conduct ? I shall go, or 
not, just as I choose, and on this occasion I choose not 
to go.” 

“ Is that your decision ? ” asked Jimmy. 

“ It is, for how can I go ? ” she answered. “ Mother 
cannot expect it of me.” 

“ Then I will go without you,” said Delphine, who, be- 
sides being pleased at again meeting Kate Lawrence, 
whom she so much esteemed, was also glad of an excuse 
not to see Josephine married. 

Jimmy, though pleased at having her for a companion, 
would still gladly have exchanged her for his sister ; — for 
how could he go home without her ? how tell his dying 
mother, when she asked for Josephine, that she had not 
come? When they were alone, almost convulsively he 
threw his arms around his sister’s neck, beseeching her 
to go ; but she only gave him tear for tear, for she could 
weep, while her invariable ansv/er was, “ I cannot, oh, 
I cannot.” 

At length his tears ceased, and Delphine reentered the 
parlor m time to see him, -with blanched face, quivering 


THE NEW HOUSE, 


359 


lips, and flashing eye, seize Josephine’s arm, as he said, 
“ For more than two years you have not been at home. 
Twice have I come for you. Once you spurned me, and 
denied that I was your brother, and this, the second time, 
when I come from mother’s death-bed, you still refuse to 
go. Far be it from me to curse you, for gladly would I 
shield you from harm, but from this hour I feel that you 
are cursed ! You and yours ! Blight will fall upon every- 
thing connected with you, and remember, when next I 
come^ yon will surely go ! ” 

Long, long did these words haunt Josephine, and in the 
years of bitterness which came, she had reason to remern-, 
her them but too well. Weary and sad was that ride to 
Snowdon ; but with Delphine for a companion, and her 
encouraging words sounding in his ear, Jimmy grew 
more strong and hopeful, though his mother’s face was 
constantly before him. Delphine knew that it would 
take more time to leave her at her uncle’s, so with kind 
consideration she requested him to drive immediately to 
his father’s. 

Supported in the arms of her eldest son, Mrs. Clayton 
lay in a death-like stupor, from which she occasionally 
roused to ask if Josephine had come. Upon the old stone 
bridge there was again heard the sound of horses’ feet, 
and a smile of joy broke over her face, as some one whis- 
pered, “ They are coming.” 

Instantly Isaac Clayton and his sons went forth to meet 
the travelers, but the face they met was strange to them 
all, save Uncle Isaac, who quickly asked for Josephine. 
“ She is to be married to-night, and deemed that a suffix 
cient excuse for not coming,” said Jimmy, stamping on 
the ground, by way of adding emphasis to his words. 

With a bitter groan Uncle Isaac staggered backward. 


360 THE GABLE-ROOFED HOUSE AT SNOWDON. 

and would have fallen, but for the timely assistance of 
Frank. “ Who, oh, who can tell her ! ” said he. 

There was silence for an instant, when Delphine said, 
“ I will tell her, if you wish it.” 

Then, with the stricken group, she entered the room, 
where the first words which met her ear were, “ Jose- 
phine and Jimmy, I have blessed them all but you. 
Now come to me, while there is^ time.” 

Side by side they advance(r to her bedside. With a 
wild, searching look at Delphine, she said, “ You are not 
Josephine. Where is she ? Shall I not see her? ” 

“ In heaven, perhaps^ you may,” answered Frank, “ but 
in this world you never will.” 

Those who were present will long remember the shriek 
which echoed through the room, as Mrs. Clayton ex- 
claimed, “ She is not dead ! Tell me, is Josephine dead ? ” 

Delphine’s soft white hand was placed on the brow al- 
ready wet with the moisture of death, and she gently 
whispered, ‘‘It is her bridal night, and she could not 
come.” 

For a time Mrs. Clayton seemed paralyzed. Then 
raising her head, she beckoned for Jimmy to come 
near her. He did so, and taking his and Delphine’s hand 
in hers, she said, “ May God in heaven be with and take 
care of you both, and bless you, even as you have been a 
blessing to me, my dear, my precious boy, my Jimmy. 
And you, Delphine, my child, my children.” There was 
a moment’s pause, and then, as if the departing spirit had 
summoned all its energies for one great effort, she let go 
the hand of Jimmy and Delphme, clasped her own to- 
gether, and raising them high over her head, started up 
erect, exclaiming, “Will God forgive my Josephine for 
all she’s made me suffer.” Then, with one long, low, des- 


THE NEW HOTTSE. 


361 


pairing cry, she fell back upon the pillow, and naught was 
left of Josephine Clayton’s mother, save the tenement 
which once enshrined the soul. 


CHAPTER Vni. 

M E S. M’G E E G O E. 

The marriage ceremony was ended, and Josephine 
Clayton, now Mrs. M’Gregor, was receiving the congrat- 
ulations of her friends. First among them came Anna, 
but the gentleman who accompanied her was a stranger, 
and Josephine was greatly surprised at hearing him in- 
troduced as Mr. Granby, Delphine’s brother. He had re- 
turned from Europe sooner than he expected. On reach- 
ing home, and learning that his sister was in the city, he 
hastened thither, reaching Mr. Hubbell’s just in time to 
witness the .ceremony. Thoughts of him, as we well 
know, had occupied many of Josephine’s waking dreams, 
and now when she at last saw him, the knowledge that 
she was not free to try upon him her powers of art, only 
rendered him doubly attractive. 

In personal appearance and manners he was as unlike 
M’Gregor as was Josephine unlike Anna; and once du- 
ring the evening, as he and Josephine were standing side 
by side near the center-table, they overheard a remark 
not intended for their ears. It was, “ How much better 
the bride looks with Mr. Granby than she does with that 
awkward M’Gregor ! ” To which the person addressed 
replied, “ Yes ; and M’Gregor seems far better suited for 
P 


862 - 


THE GABLE-EOOFED HOUSE AT SNOWDON. 


plain Miss Hubbell ! See ! they are standing together 
there by the window.” 

Instantly George Granby’s and Josephine’s eyes met, 
and then glanced across the room to the spot where 
M’Gregor was making most desperate efforts to play the 
agreeable to Anna Hubbell, who was smiling, and bow- 
ing, and twirling her fan. Again their eyes met, and 
this time a scarcely perceptible smile curled the corner 
of Josephine’s mouth, while George Granby, offering her 
his arm, conducted her back to her husband, and taking 
Anna, led her to the music-room, where some one was 
playing the piano. But Josephine’s eyes and thoughts 
followed him. 

As we well know, she had not married M’Gregor for 
love, but because he was rich, and she knew that riches 
would procure for her the position in society she so 
greatly coveted. Insensibly she began to contrast her 
husband with George Granby, and ere long she was bla- 
ming the former for having hastened their marriage. 
This was an uncommon mood, surely, for a young bride 
to be in, but Josephine was an uncommon bride, and by 
the time the last guest was gone, and they were alone, 
she might safely be said to be in a fit of the sulks, whilst 
poor M’Gregor, distressed beyond measure, strove to as- 
certain the cause of her apparent melancholy. She saw 
the necessity of making some explanation, so she told 
him, for the first time, of her mother’s illness, alleging 
that as the cause of her sadness. 

“ Why did you not tell me before ? ” said M’Gregor. 
“ I would, of course, have postponed our marriage for a 
few days.” 

“Would to heaven I had! ” said Josephine, mth more 
meaning in her words than M’Gregor gave her credit for. 

The next morning, at an early horn-, a gay livery stood 


MRS. M’GREGOR. 


8C3 


before Mr. Hubbell’s door, and M’Gregor, helping in his 
young bride, and taking a seat beside her, was driven off 
in the direction of Snowdon. It was a delightful morn- 
ing, and under almost any other circumstances Josephine 
would have enjoyed the ride. Now, however, she chose 
to find fault with aU her husband’s assiduous attentions 
and politeness, saying, at last, ill-naturedly, “ Do, M’Greg- 
or, stop your fussing. I am doing well enough, and will 
let you know if I am uncomfortable.” 

He complied with her request, as who would not, think- 
ing she had changed her tone and manner very soon. 
About three o’clock they reached Snowdon, and by the 
side of her pale, dead mother, the ice about Josephine’s 
heart gave way, and in the most extravagant terms she 
bewailed her loss. Uncle Isaac, overjoyed at again be- 
holding his daughter, and deceived by her loud show of 
grief, wound his arm about her, blessing her, and calling 
her his precious child. The next day they buried Mrs. 
Clayton, and the day following, J osephine returned to the 
city, in spite of her father’s entreaties that she would stay 
a while longer with him. Promising to return in the 
spring, she bade him good-by, and when again in the city, 
she, to all appearance, soon forgot that death had been so 
near her. 

Frequently she met George Granby, but the influence 
she had hoped to gain over him was partially prevented 
by the presence of Delphine, who, together with Mabel 
Howland and Kate Lawrence, had come to the city to 
pass the winter, her father, at her earnest request, having 
removed there for the season. 

M’Gregor took a house opposite Mr. Hubbell’s, and 
commenced housekeeping in great style. Nothing could 
exceed the elegance of his establishment; and Josephine, 
who managed to keep the house filled with a set of fash- 


364 


THE GABLE-ROOFED HOUSE AT SNOWDOIT. 


ionable young men, seemed at last perfectly happy, 
though her husband was far from being so. True, he 
had the best furnished house and the handsomest wife in 
the city, but he found too late that beauty alone is not 
the only requisite in a wife ; and before the winter was 
over he would have hailed the disfiguring small pox as a 
blessing, had it succeeded in keeping from his house the 
set of young men so frequently found there. 

M’Gregor was not naturally jealous, but when, night 
after night, on his return from business, he found his wife 
so engrossed with company as to be wholly incapable of 
paying him any attention, he grew uneasy, and once ven- 
tured to remonstrate with her ; but she merely laughed 
him in the face, telling him that whatever he could say 
would be of no avail — that he could n’t expect one so 
young and gay as she to settle down into the humdrum 
Mrs. M’Gregor — ^that it would be time ehough to do that 
when she wore a wig or colored her hair. 

George Granby at first only called occasionally, but on 
such occasions Josephine did her best, acting the agreea- 
ble hostess so admirably that, insensibly, George became 
attracted toward her, and ere Delphine was aware of it, he 
was a regular visitor at the house of M’Gregor, who never 
objected to him ; for, unlike the others who came there, 
George treated him with the utmost deference, always 
seeming pleased to see him present. 

One evening the three were together, and conversing 
about ill-assorted marriages. J osephine, as one who ought 
to know, discoursed eloquently on the matter, and des- 
canted so feelingly on the wretchedness resulting from such 
unions, that two large tears actually dropped from her eyes, 
and fell upon her worsted work. M’Gregor would have 
given anything to have known if his wife considered their 
marriage an unfortunate one, but he wisely kept silent, and 


MRS. M’GEEGOR. 


865 


J osephine continued : “Whenever I see a person for whom 
I feel an uncommon interest, about to unite himself with 
one every way unsuited to him, my heart aches for hiTn^ 
and I long to warn him of his danger.” 

“ Why not do so, then ? ” said George. 

“ Would my advice be kindly received? ” asked Jose- 
phine, at the same time giving him a searching look. 

He understood her, but made no reply, and when the 
conversation changed, somehow or other it turned upon 
Anna, who, Josephine said, was a kind-hearted girl, but 
it was such a pity she hadn’t more character, — more life. 

“ But do you not think she has improved in the last re- 
spect ? ” asked George. 

Josephine faintly admitted that she had, but in the 
next breath she spoke of her as possessing very little, if 
any intellect, and lamented her utter incapacity to fill 
the sphere for which she was intended. George Granby 
needed not that she should tell him all this, for he feared 
as much, though he had never once thought of breaking 
his engagement with her. He had returned from Eu- 
rope intending to make her his wife, and hoping to find 
her greatly improved. And she was improved, both in 
personal appearance and manners. Constant intercourse 
with Delphine had been of great benefit to her, and when 
George came home, he was pleased to see how much she 
had brightened up. Her health, too, had greatly im- 
proved, and as she always dressed with the utmost taste, 
she more than once had been called quite pretty, though 
at all parties where Delphine, Kate Lawrence, Mabel, 
and Mrs. M’Gregor were present, she was entirely over- 
looked, or pointed out to strangers as the young lady 
who was engaged to the polished Mr. Granby. 

We have not yet described Kate Lawrence, and we 
cannot do so better than to say, that to a style of beauty 


8C6 


THE GABLE-EOOFED HOUSE AT SIfOWDON. 


fuJly equal to Josephine, she added a proportionate kind- 
heartedness and intelligence. She was just the one whom 
Delphine would have selected for her brother, had he not 
been engaged to Anna Hubbell. Now, however, she 
never harbored such a thought, and she assiduously strove 
to assimilate Anna more to her brother’s taste, always 
speaking encouragingly to her, and kindly of her. 

George had as yet never directly asked Delphine’s 
opinion of Anna, but the morning following his conversar 
tion with Josephine, he sought an interview with his sister, 
abruptly asking her if she sincerely thought that Anna 
Hubbell would make him happy as his wife. 

Delphine was taken by surprise. She had that morn- 
ing accidentally discovered that Kate Lawrence had a se- 
cret liking for her brother, and she was just wishing it 
might be — wishing it could be — when George startled her 
with his question. 

“ Why, George,” said she, “ what could have put that 
idea into your head? Have Kate’s bright eyes dimmed 
the luster of poor Anna’s charms ? ” 

“No, no; I am not thinking of Kate,” said he, some- 
what impatiently ; “ but tell me, honestly, your opinion.” 

And Delphine did teU him her opinion. She spoke of 
Anna’s gentleness and kindness of heart, admitting that 
on many points she was rather weak and inefficient. 
“ But,” said she, “ you are engaged to her, you have 
promised to marry her, and my brother wiU surely keep 
his word.” Here a loud caU from Mabel that Delphine 
should join her in the parlor, put an end to the con- 
versation. 

Meantime, Mr. M’Gregor was about to commit a sad 
blunder. Thinking George to be his sincere friend, as 
indeed he was, and knowing the great influence which he 
possessed over Josephine, he resolved upon asking him to 


MRS. M’GEEGOR. 


367 


use that influence in dissuading her from receiving the 
visits of so many gentlemen. Accordingly, the next time 
George, called, M’Gregor took the opportunity, when they 
Tvere for a few moments alone in the drawing-room. Af- 
ter stanimering awhile, he broached the subject, and with 
much difficulty succeeded in making George understand 
what he wanted. 

“Silly old fool,” said Josephine, who in an adjoming 
room had overheard every word. “ He is meaner than I 
thought him to be ; ” and then she listened, while George 
respectfully declined any interference with M’Gregor’s 
family matters. 

“Your wife has sufficient discretion,” said he, “to pre- 
vent her doing anything wrong; besides, I should be 
working against myself, for I come here as frequently as 
any one.” 

This was true ; and as Josephine at that moment joined 
them, M’Gregor said no more on the subject, but soon 
after recollecting some business which he had down street, 
he left them alone. For an hour they conversed on dif- 
ferent topics, and then Josephine, demurely folding her 
bands, said, “ When are you going to begin to lecture 
me ? I believe you have been requested to do so, have 
you not ? ” 

George blushed scarlet, and while he admitted the 
fact, he disclaimed all intention of doing so ; then, in the 
tones of a deeply injured woman, Josephine detailed her 
grievances, saying that each day she saw more and more 
her mistake, and that though she did not exactly regret 
her marriage, she yet many times wished she had not 
been quite so hasty. George Granby was perfectly in- 
toxicated vnth her beauty, while the tones of her voice 
and the glance of her eye thrilled every nerve. Snatch- 
ing her hand to his lips, he exclaimed, “Josephine, Jose- 


S68 


THE GABLE-ROOFED HOUSE AT S]SrO'WT)ON. 


phine ! why did you not wait a little longer ? ” Then, as 
if regretting what he had said, he hastily rose, and saying 
that he had another engagment, hade her good night, 
and hurried away, almost cursing himself for the words 
and manner which he had used toward a married woman. 

The engagement of which he had spoken was with 
Anna Huhbell, and going to her father’s, he asked to see 
her. She had long been expecting him, but was not pre- 
pared for the vehemence with which he insisted upon her 
naming an early day for their marriage. 

“ Why such haste ? ” asked Anna. 

“ Ask me no questions,” said he, “ but if you would 
save me from evil, become my wife, and that soon.” 

In an instant Anna thought of Kate, and looking him 
fully in the face, she said, “Answer me truthfully, George, 
do you love Kate Lawrence ? ” 

“ Ko, no,” said he, “it would not be sinful to love her 
— she is fi’ee ; but that other one — ” 

Anna knew that he was in the habit of frequenting 
M’Gregor’s house, and suddenly a light flashed upon her 
mind, and she said, “It cannot be Josephine, my friend 
Josephine.” 

“ Your friend ! ” he answered, bitterly ; “ caU her not 
your friend, she does not deserve it. But you have 
guessed right ; I blindly put myself in the way of temp- 
tation, seeing no danger, and believing there was none.” 

The color receded from Anna’s cheeks, and when 
George looked at her for an answer, he was surprised at 
the changed expression of her face. Something between 
a sob and a groan came from her white lips, but he suc- 
ceeded in soothing her, and ere he left the house he had 
gained her consent that the marriage should take place in 
one week from that day, and that he might speak to her 
father. 


MBS. M’GREGOE. 


36a 


Mr. Hubbell was in the library. On learning the na- 
ture of George’s errand, he gave vent to a few impatient 
“ umphs ” and “ pshaws,” but ended by giving his con- 
sent, on condition that Anna remained with him a year 
after her marriage. 

Scarcely had the street door closed upon George, ere 
Anna was told that her father vdshed to see her. “Well, 
now, what’s the mighty hurry ? ” were his first words, as 
she entered his room, but anything further was prevented 
by the sight of her unusually white face and swollen eyes. 
“ Why, Anna, child,” said he, “ what’s the matter ? 
Don’t you love George ? Don’t you want to married ? ” 

“ Yes, yes, father,” said she, “but don’t ask me any- 
thing more, for I am very unhappy and bursting into 
tears, she sat down on a stool at her father’s feet, and 
laying her face in his lap, sobbed until wholly exhausted, 
and then fell asleep, while Mr. Hubbard gently stroked 
her soft, brovm hair, wondering what ailed her, and if his 
Anna cried so a week before they were married. 

The remembrance of his own darling wife caused two 
tears to drop from his eyes and fall upon Anna’s face. 
This roused her, and rising up, she said, “ Forget my 
foolishness, father. To-morrow I shall be myself again.” 
Then bidding him good-night, she repaired to her own 
room. For several days she had been suffering mth a 
severe pain in the head, and when she awoke next morn- 
ing, it had increased so rapidly that she could scarcely 
rise from her pillow without fainting. Her father, in- 
stantly alarmed, sent for a physician, who expressed a 
fear that her disease might terminate in brain fever. On 
learning of her friend’s illness, Delphine immediately has- 
tened to her. During the afternoon a servant girl en- 
tered the sick-room, saying that Mrs. M’Gregor was in 
the parlor, and wished to see Miss Hubbell. 

P* 


24 


S70 THE GABLE-ROOFED HOTTSE AT SNOWDON. 

“ I cannot see her,” said Anna ; then calling Delphine 
to her, she said, “Will you stay with me while I am 
sick ? ” 

“ Certainly, if you wish it,” was the answer, and Anna 
continued, “And, Dell, if I should get crazy, and Jose- 
phine comes again, you won’t let her in, will you ? ” 

Delphine promised that she would not, wondering 
what could have produced this change in Anna, in regard 
to Josephine. Next day Anna was much worse, and, as 
had been feared, she grew delirious. Constantly she 
talked of Josephine, who, she said, “had stolen away the 
only heart she ever coveted.” Delphine was greatly puz- 
zled, and when that night she for a few moments re- 
turned home, she mentioned the circumstance to George, 
who, with his usual frankness, immediately told her all. 
Delphine heard him through, and then repeated to him 
all which she knew concerning Josephine’s character for 
intrigue and deceit, blaming herself for not having warned 
him before. The scales dropped from George’s eyes; 
Josephine’s power over him was gone, and he saw her in 
her real character. Tiie next day, at his earnest request, 
he was allowed to enter Anna’s room ; but she did not 
know him, though her eyes, intensely bright with the fire 
of delirium, glared wildly upon him as she motioned him 
away. Approaching, and bending over her, he said, 
“ Anna, don’t you know me ? I am George, and next 
Thursday will be our bridal day.” 

For a moment she was silent, and then with a satisfied 
smile she answered, “Yes, that’s it; that’s what I’ve 
tried so hard to remember and couldn’t.” Then as the 
physician entered the room, she said to him, “Next 
Thursday is to be my bridal day, and you will come, for 
It will be a novel sight. Everybody will cry but George, 
and I, the bride, will be in my coffin.” 


MRS. M’GREGOR. 


371 


Poor Anna! Her words proved true, for the sunlight 
of W ednesday morning fell upon her gray-haired, stricken 
father, weeping over his dead, and the next day at the same 
hour at which the wedding v/as to have taken place, the 
black hearse stood before Mr. Hubbell’s door. In it a nar- 
row coffin was placed, and then, followed by a long train of 
carriages, it proceeded slowly toward the home of the 
dead, while each note of the tolling bell fell like a crush- 
ing weight on the heart of Mr. Hubbell, as by the side 
of her, long since laid to rest, he buried his only child. 


CHAPTER IX. 

CHANGES. 

Ten years have passed away, since we followed poor 
Anna Hubbell to her early grave. With the lapse of 
time many changes have come to those who have kept 
with us in the early chapters of this story. Jimmy Clay- 
ton, long since admitted to the bar, is now a lawyer of 
some celebrity in one of our western cities. For six 
happy years he has called Delphine Granby his wife, and 
in his luxurious home a little boy four years old watches 
each night for his father’s coming, while the year old 
baby, Anna, crows out her welcome, and Delphine, beau- 
tiful as ever, offers her still blooming cheek for her hus- 
band’s usual greeting, and then playfully assists the little 
Anna in her attempts to reach her father’s arms. Truly, 
Jimmy’s was a happy lot. Blest with rare talents, abun- 
dant wealth, and influential friends, he was fast approach- 


872 


THE GABLE-EOOFED HOUSE AT SNOWDON". 


ing that post of honor, which he has since filled, and of 
which we will not speak, lest we be too personal. 

But on his bright horizon one dark cloud heavily low- 
ered. He could not forget that Josephine, his once beau- 
tiful sister Josephine, was now an object of reproach and 
dark suspicion. Step by step she had gone on in her ca- 
reer of folly, until M’Gregor, stung to madness by the 
sense of wrong done him, turned from his home and sought 
elsewhere a more agreeable resting place. At first he 
frequented the more fashionable saloons, then the gaming 
room, until at last it was rumored that more than once at 
midnight he had been seen emerging from some low, un- 
derground grocery, and with unsteady step wending his 
way homeward, where as usual Josephine was engaged 
with her visitors ; and her half intoxicated husband, with- 
out entering the parlor, would repair to his sleeping room, 
and in heavy slumbers wear off ere morning the effect of 
his night’s debauch. In this way he became habitually 
intemperate, ere Josephine dreamed of his danger. 

One night she was entertaining a select few of her 
friends. The wine, the song, and the joke flowed freely, 
and the mirth of the company was at its height, when 
the door bell rang furiously, and in a moment four men 
entered the drawing-room, bringing with them Mr. 
M’Gregor, in a state of perfect insensibility. Laying 
him upon a sofa, they touched their hats respectfully to 
the ladies and left. 

With a shriek of horror and anger Josephine went off 
into violent hysterics, wishing herself dead, and declaring 
her intentions of taking immediate steps for becoming so, 
unless some one interfered and freed her from the drunken 
brute. One by one the fi'iends departed, leaving her 
alone with her husband, whose stupor had passed away 


CHANGES. 


373 


and was succeeded by a fit of such silly, maudlin fond- 
ness, that Josephine in disgust fled from his presence. 

From this time matters rapidly grew worse. Still, as 
long as Josephine was surrounded by the appliances of 
wealth, her old admirers hovered around her ; but when 
everything was gone, when she and her husband were 
houseless^ homeless beggars, they left her, and she would 
have been destitute, indeed, had it not been for her eldest 
brother, Frank, who did for her what he could, remem- 
bering, though, that in her palmy days of wealth she had 
treated him and his with the utmost contempt. Her sec- 
ond brother, John, was in one of the southern states. 
The next one, Archie, was across the ocean. Jimmy, too, 
was away at the. west, and for the two between Archie 
and Jimmy, graves had been dug in the frozen earth just 
three years from the day of their mother’s death. It was 
well for Uncle Isaac that he, too, was sleeping by the side 
of his wife, ere he heard the word dishonor coupled 
with his daughter’s name. 

For a time after their downfall, M’Gregor seemed try- 
ing to retrieve his character. He became sober, and la- 
bored hard to support himself and wife, but alas ! she 
whose gentle words and winsome ways should have led 
her erring husband back to virtue, spoke to him hai’shly, 
coldly, continually upbraiding him for having brought her 
into such poverty. At length, in a fit of desperation, he 
left her, swearing that she might starve for aught more 
he should do for her. For a time she supported herself 
by sewing, but sickness came upon her, and then she was 
needy indeed. 

Once, in her hour of destitution, George Granby, now 
the happy husband of Kate Lawrence, found her out, and 
entering her cold, comfortless room, oftered her sympathy 
and aid ; but with her olden pride she coldly rejected 


374 THE GABLE-EOOFED HOUSE AT SNOWDON. 

both, saying she was doing well enough, though even 
then she had not a mouthfiil of food, nor the means of 
buying it. George guessed as much, and when after his 
departure she found upon the little pine table by the 
window a golden eagle, she clutched it eagerly, and pur- 
chased with it the first morsel she had eaten in twenty- 
four hours. 


% 9 >fc 


In a snug, cozy parlor in the city of C , are seated 

our old fiiends, Jimmy Clayton and Delphine. The latter 
is engaged upon a piece of needle-work, while the former 
in brocade dressing gown and embroidered slippers, is 
looking over an evening paper, occasionally reading a 
paragraph aloud to his wife. At last throwing aside the pa- 
per he said, “ I have been thinking of Josephine all day. 
It is along time since I heard from her, and I greatly fear 
she is not doing very well.” 

“ Do you believe her to be in actual w^ant ? ” asked 
Delphine. 

“ I don’t know,” was the answer. “ From her letters 
one would not suppose so, but she is so proud and inde- 
pendent, that you can hardly judge. Frank, too, has 
left Snowdon, and there is now' no one left to look after 
her.” 

There was a rap at the door, and a servant entered, 
saying, “ The evening mail is in, and I brought you tliis 
from the post-ofiice,” at the same time presenting a let- 
ter to Mr. Clayton, who instantly recognized the hand 
writing of Josephine. hiTervously breaking the seal, he 
hnrriedly read the blurred and blotted page. Jimmy had 
not wept since the day when the coffin lid closed upon 


CHANGES, 875 

his mother, but now his tears fell fast over his sister’s let- 
ter. It was as follows : 

“ Jimmy, dear Jimmy, my darling brother Jimmy. 
Have you still any affection for me, your wretched sister, 
who remembers well that once, proudly exultant in her 
own good fortime, she denied you, and that more than 
once she turned in scorn from the dear ones in the old 
Snowdon home ? You cursed me once, Jimmy, or rather 
said that I was accursed. Do you remember it ? It was 
the same day that made me a wife and our blessed mother 
an angel. They ring in my ears yet, those dreadful 
words, and they have been carried out with a tenfold ven- 
geance. I am cursed, I and mine, but my punishment 
seems greater than I can bear ; and now, Jimmy, by the 
memory of our mother, who died without one word of 
love from me, — by the memory of our gray-haired father, 
— and by our two brothers, whose graves I never saw, 
and for whom I never shed a tear, — by the memory of 
all these dead ones, come to me or I shall die. 

“ Patiently I worked on, until wasting sickness came, 
and since then I have suffered all the poor can ever suffer. 
Frank is gone ; and from those I once knew in this city, 
I dare not seek for aid. Perhaps you, too, have heard 
that I was faithless to my husband, but of that sin God 
knows that I am innocent. The firelight by which I am 
writing this is going out, and I must stop. I know not 
where M’Gregor is, but I do not blame him for leaving 
me. And now Jimmy, won’t you come, and quickly, 
too? Oh, Jimmy, my brother Jimmy, come, come.” 


4e « ft 


♦ 


4 : 


870 


THE GABLE-EOOFED HOUSE AT SNOWDOK. 


It "was a chill, dreary night. Angry douds darkened 
the evening sky, and the cold December wind swept furi- 
ously through the almost deserted streets, causing each 
child of poverty to draw more closely to him his tattered 
garment, which but poorly sheltered him from the blasts 
of winter. In a cheerless room in the third story of a 
crazy old building, a young woman was hovering over a 
handful of coals, baking the thin corn-cake which was to 
serve for both supper and breakfast. Everything within 
the room denoted the extreme destitution of its occu- 
pant, whose pale, pinched features told plainly that she 
had drained the cup of poverty to its very dregs. As 
she stooped to remove the corn-cake, large tears fell upon 
the dying embers, and she murmured, “ He will not come, 
and I shall die alone.” 

Upon the rickety stairway there was the sound of 
footsteps, and the gruff voice of the woman, who occupied 
the second floor, was heard saying, “Right ahead, first 
door you come to. Yes, that’s the one ; now be careful, 
and not fall through the broken stair ; ” and in another 
moment Jimmy Clayton stood within the room, which for 
many months had been his sister’s only home. 

There was a long, low cry of mingled shame and joy, 
and then Josephine was fainting in her brother’s arms. 
From the old broken pitcher upon the table Jimmy took 
some water, and bathed her face and neck until she recov- 
ered. Then was she obliged to reassure him of her iden- 
tity, ere he could believe that in the wi'eck before him, he 
beheld his once beautiful sister Josephine. 

He took immediate measures to have her removed to a 
more comfortable room, and then with both his hands 
tightly clasped in hers, she told him her sad history since 
the day of her husband’s desertion. She did not blame 
M’Gregor for leaving her, but said that were he only re- 


CHANGES. 


377 


stored to her again, she would, if possible, atone for the 
past ; for, said she, “ until he left me, I did not know that 
I loved hun.” 

Jimmy heard her story, and then for a time was silent. 
On his way to the city he had stopped at Snowdon, at the 
home where his father and mother had died, and which 
now belonged to him. He had intended to place Jose- 
phine in it, but the time for which it was rented would 
not expire until the following May. At first he thought 
to take his sister to his western home, but this he knew 
would be pleasant neither to her nor liis wife. The old 
“ gable-roof” was still standing, and as there seemed no 
alternative, he ordered it to be decently fitted up as a 
temporary asylum for his sister. When at last he spoke, 
he told her all this, and then with a peculiar look, he said, 

Will you go ? ” 

“ Gladly, oh, most gladly,” said she. There, rather 
than elsewhere.” 

The lumbering stage coach had long since given place 
to the iron horse, which accomplished the distance to 
Snowdon in little more than an hour. Accordingly, the 
evening following the incidents just narrated, Jimmy 
Clayton and his sister took the night train for Snowdon. 
The cars had but just roUed out from the depot, when a 
tall, thick set man, with his face completely enveloped in 
his overcoat and cap, entered and took a seat directly in 
front of our friends. For a moment his eye rested upon 
Josephine, causing her involuntarily to start forward, but 
instantly resuming her seat, she soon forgot the stranger, 
in anxiously watching for the first sight of Snowdon. It 
was soon reached, and in ten minutes time the door of the 
old gable-roof swung open, and Delphine, whom Jimmy 
had left at Judge Howland’s, appeared to welcome the 
travelers. On the hearth of the old fashioned sitting-room. 


378 THE GABLE-ROOEED HOUSE AT SNOWDON. 

a cheei-ful fire was blazing. Before it stood the neatly 
spread tea-table, and scattered about the room were* vari- 
ous things, which Delphine had procured for Josephine’s 
comfort. 

Sinking into the first chair, J osephine burst into a fit of 
weeping, saying, “ I did not expect this ; I do not deserve 
it.” Then growing calm, she turned to Jimmy and said, 
“ Do you know that eleven years ago to-night our angel 
mother died, and eleven years ago this morning, you ut- 
tered the prophetic words, “ when next I come, you will 
surely go ? ” 

She would have added more, but the outside door slow- 
ly opened, and the stranger of the cars stood before them, 
saying, “ Eleven years ago to-night, I took to my bosom 
a beautiful bride, and I thought I was supremely blessed. 
Since then, we have both suffered much, but it only makes 
our reunion on this, the anniversary of our bridal night, 
more happy.” 

Drawing from his head the old slouched cap, the fea- 
tures of Hugh M’Gregor stood revealed to liis astonished 
listeners. With a wild shriek Josephine threw herself 
into liis arms, while he kissed her forehead and lips, say- 
ing, “Josephine, my poor, dear Josephine. We shall be 
happy together now.” 

After a time he briefly related the story of his wander- 
ings, saying, that immediately after separating from his 
wife he resolved upon an entire reformation, and the bet- 
ter to do this, he determined to leave the city, so fraught 
with temptation and painful reminiscences. Going west, 
he finally located in a small country village, engaging him- 
self in the capacity of a teacher, which situation he had 
ever since retained. 

“I never forgot you, Josephine,” said he, “though at 
first my heart was full of bitterness toward you ; but with 


CHANGES. 


379 


improved health came a more healthful tone of mind, and 
in the past I saw much for which to blame myself. At 
last, my desire to hear something from you was so great, 
that I visited the city where your brother resides. I went 
to his house, but on the threshold my step was arrested 
by the sound of your name. James was speaking of you. 
Soon a servant entered, bringing your letter. I listened 
while he read it aloud, and wept bitterly at the recital of 
your sufferings. I knew he would come to you, and de- 
tennined to follow him, though I knew not whether my 
presence would be welcome or not. I was at the door of 
that desolate room when you met. I was listening when 
you spoke kindly, affectionately of me. I heard of your 
proposed removal to Snowdon, and made my plans accord- 
ingly. Now here I am, and it is at Josephine’s option 
whether I go away or stay.” 

He stayed, and faithfully kept was the marriage vow 
that night renewed in the “Gable-roofed House at 
Snowdon.” 


THE END, 


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